


The House That Dripped Blood

by myrmidryad



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe, First Time, Historical Fantasy, M/M, Nightmares, Not quite a haunted house, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts, Travelling Musicians, violinist grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 14:17:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 59,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8404828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: So he’d been having more nightmares, and he’d tried to medicate with alcohol. It had happened before, but this time Bossuet and Musichetta weren’t content with promises and placations, and in truth, neither was Grantaire. It had been almost twenty years since he’d left the village. Was he supposed to live like this for the rest of his life, haunted by a place he could hardly remember? Once he’d decided, the others wouldn’t let him change his mind. They changed direction at the next crossroads and started heading east, heading for Carentan.  In an effort to confront the source of his nightmares, Grantaire returns to his childhood village in order to burn down his father's old house and get some closure. When he arrives, he discovers that in order to do that he'll have to provide a new home for the family now living there, and though he can afford the expense, he has to lodge with the mayor's son, Enjolras, while he waits for building to be completed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I started writing this two whole years ago thanks to a combination of misty October walks to work and the less-terrible-than-you-might-expect M. Night Shyamalan movie The Village, which I recommend if only for its gorgeous soundtrack and solid spooky village aesthetics. To get an idea of what the band sounds like, I recommend listening to some Nickel Creek, particularly [Scotch and Chocolate](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ctA6NBWM6Ek<a), [Ode to a Butterfly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v2o0TYnHEUY<a), [Elsie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BWMYhKZ6Lg0<a) (I prefer it without the drums, but I can't find a normal studio recording on YouTube), and [The Fox](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1i4dvmKhuP8<a).
> 
> Fic title comes from [The House That Dripped Blood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SEQ7ONGm1Qw<a) by The Mountain Goats.

 

_Still waters go stagnant / Bodies bloat / And the cellar door / Is an open throat_

 

It wasn’t so much the drinking that became the problem as the nightmares. Musichetta was the one who finally confronted him about it, following him out of a tavern he’d been ejected from and finding him as he slumped into a soggy, blurry-eyed heap against the wall outside.

“My fiddle,” he slurred, relaxing when she held up the familiar case. “Bless you.”

Musichetta at ease was loud and lively. In anger she went tight and silent, which was how he knew, even in the depths of his drunkenness, that he was in for it when she crouched down to face him with narrow eyes and her lips in a pressed line. When she lifted her hand to his face, he flinched, but the fingers she slid into his hair were gentle, even though her lips were thin.

“No more of this,” she said quietly. “Understand? Tomorrow, we talk. No drinking, no bullshit.” A moment’s silence, to let it sink in, and then she got up and went back inside. Marius and Bossuet came out a while later to half-carry him to the stables to sleep in an empty stall, since the innkeeper wouldn’t have him back inside. Marius stayed out with him, the two of them sharing a blanket, and in the morning they forced water down his throat and got back on the road.

Bossuet and Musichetta helped him explain, coaxing him along with pieces of his history they already knew, reminding him of secrets they’d shared before to put him more at ease. Even Marius joined in, talking a little about the grandfather he’d run away from, and that more than anything loosened Grantaire’s tongue.

The drinking helped him sleep, was the thing, and he’d been sleeping badly of late. They knew that – they slept together most of the time, and it was hard to ignore the way Grantaire would sometimes wake up mid-shout, or so breathless he might have run a mile in his sleep. Occasionally he wouldn’t even come back to himself for a minute or two, awake but not present.

So he’d been having more nightmares, and he’d tried to medicate with alcohol. It had happened before, but this time Bossuet and Musichetta weren’t content with promises and placations, and in truth, neither was Grantaire. It had been almost twenty years since he’d left the village. Was he supposed to live like this for the rest of his life, haunted by a place he could hardly remember?

Once he’d decided, the others wouldn’t let him change his mind. They changed direction at the next crossroads and started heading east, heading for Carentan.

 

The woods to the southwest of Carentan began to thin the closer they got to the village boundary. There was evidence of grazing cattle amidst the trees, and human handiwork that Grantaire recognised and pointed out – coppice groves fenced off to protect young shoots from cattle and deer, pollard trees standing with trunks wide and strong up to the point where dozens of narrow branches burst from the top. Bossuet and Musichetta had heard him talk about such things before, but Marius had only been with them for a year.

Trees eventually gave way to fields and pastures, most standing empty. In the middle of summer, after all, why keep cattle enclosed when they could be set loose to feed themselves at no expense? Marius, Bossuet, and Musichetta had all grown up in towns or cities – none of them had ever worked the land, though as Musichetta said, they had certainly tramped over enough of it to be at home in the countryside.

The countryside back west was different though, as were the villages. They were neater, with clear roads and lanes and streets linking them up. They’d diverged from the road once they’d reached the forest a week ago, and since then they’d been relying on Grantaire’s memory. As he stood on the edge of the wood and stared up at Carentan, he wasn’t sure whether he was glad they’d made it or not. In his absence, the place had grown. He should have been able to see the meeting hall from here, he was sure, but now there were houses in the way. The boundaries to the northwest looked as though they’d been expanded as well, the forest cleared to make room for more fields.

“Why does it all have to be uphill?” Musichetta grumbled, coming to stand at Grantaire’s side.

“It’s a sort of oval,” Grantaire explained, sketching the shape with his hands without looking away from the village. “All the houses are sort of clustered in the east corner, stretching north along the curve. All the fields used to be below, where we are, but it looks like they’ve gone further westwards as well. There’re orchards further along here, due south.”

The topmost edge of the village became visible as they walked up the slope, a tall line of green rising at the bottom of the sky, which was turning grey with clouds. Out of the shelter of the forest, the wind whipped viciously at their clothes, turning what should have been a hot day cold. Marius shivered, pulling his hat lower on his head. “It’s not always like this, is it?”

“Usually, from what I remember,” Grantaire said, something like panic beginning to roil under his skin. It hadn’t seemed real until now, but here they were. Here he was. He’d fled west into the woods when he was seventeen and hadn’t stopped until he’d crossed the River Saiz, over two weeks’ walk away.

They saw their first people as they went further up the hill. A small flock of sheep was being watched over by a young man with a dog in one of the western fields, and as they got closer to the houses, more people appeared. Teenagers and young men and women mostly, working in gardens, milking goats, sweeping porches. They stared openly as Grantaire and the others passed, and he began to sweat, glad that the northern point of the village couldn’t be seen from here.

The meeting hall was in the middle of the village, if such an unruly sprawl of houses could really have a middle. Bossuet nudged him, frowning. “Where’re the children?”

“School, probably. That’s the schoolhouse.” Grantaire pointed to a large building with a red door, across the green from the meeting hall. They were the two largest buildings in the village.

“There aren’t any shops,” Marius whispered, looking around. “Where do they buy things?”

“From each other. There’s a blacksmith around somewhere, and there was a doctor who sold remedies out of his house.” There were no streets either, only paths where the grass had been trampled flat or eroded completely into dirt lanes.

“And a tavern right there,” Bossuet said, breaking into a smile. “Thank fuck.”

Grantaire turned, surprised, but Bossuet was right. What had looked like a house like any other from behind, was actually a tavern from the front. It faced the green, a sign with a well-painted bottle hanging from the porch roof. “That wasn’t there when you were, I take it?” Musichetta grinned at his expression, and Grantaire shook his head.

“There was a tavern, but it was on the north edge, and it wasn’t…well, it wasn’t anything like this.” This tavern looked respectable. Small, neat, and calm enough to sit comfortably within sight of the school and meeting house. Certainly not something Thénardier’s establishment could have ever achieved.

“Well, that seems as good a place as any to set up camp,” Bossuet said, satisfied. He nudged Grantaire’s shoulder. “Do you want us to come with you?”

“No.” Grantaire swallowed, but managed to give him a small smile. “You go ahead. I won’t be long.”

Musichetta kissed his cheek, and headed off with Marius and Bossuet to investigate the tavern further. Grantaire waited long enough to see them go inside, telling himself he was just checking it was open, and then turned to start walking towards the meeting hall, glad of the fact that his stomach was empty of anything to throw up.

The hall gleamed white against the grey sky, and Grantaire tried to remember how many times he’d been inside. It looked too small to hold the population of the entire village, but he remembered the interior as huge, echoing. All he could remember was the colour of the floorboards and the echo of many boots falling on them. But the meeting hall was where all the village’s documents were held, including deeds and property information. And Grantaire hadn’t come all this way just to balk at the final hurdle.

The wind tugged at his hair as he crossed the grass and went up the steps to the doors. As he was reaching for the handle of one, it swung open and a woman on the other side jumped. “Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t…” She trailed off and cocked her head, on which her pale hair was piled up in an elaborate knot. Grantaire stepped back to make room for her to pass, looking down at the stairs. Of course she would be surprised to see a face she didn’t recognise.

She passed him in silence, and he slipped inside as soon as the doorway was clear, taking a deep breath once he was alone. It was larger inside than he’d expected, though perhaps it was just because he’d never been in here without the chairs set up. They were stacked against the walls, and the pale light streaming through the windows at the end pooled on the floor and showed dust motes drifting gently through the air.

Everything in Carentan was so quiet. Grantaire shivered, and the sound of his boots on the floorboards echoed in the hall as he made his way over to the only other door, a smaller one set in the wall to the right of the stage area. It was slightly ajar, and Grantaire touched the edge of the frame for luck before stepping through.

A narrow corridor with three more doors greeted him. Two closed, and the one at the far right open. Listening, he thought he could hear the scratch of a pen on paper, so he headed for that one. Inside, a man with hair as blonde as the woman who’d stared at him on the steps was bent over a desk, copying something out of a book held open in front of him.

“Forget something?” the man asked, smiling. He lifted his head and blinked, the smile fading away. “You’re not Cosette.”

“I’m not,” Grantaire agreed, stepping inside properly. The man assumed a neutral expression and rose to his feet.

“Can I help you?”

This was the moment. The whole purpose of his journey. Strangely, he didn’t feel half as sick as he had outside. Grantaire took a breath and nodded. “I’m hoping so. I’m…my name is Grantaire Martineau. I used to live here.”

The man’s eyebrows drew together, his lips parting for a moment before he repeated, “Martineau,” under his breath, as if trying to place it. “Martineau…from the Martineau house? Are you…” He looked Grantaire up and down, and Grantaire fought the urge to avert his eyes and hunch over. “Are you the boy who ran away?”

 _Boy?_ He’d been seventeen when he left. Grantaire had to bite back a smile at his own flash of indignation, and nodded. “I suppose I am.”

The man stared at him for a long moment before blinking and offering his hand. “I’m Enjolras.”

The name was familiar, and Grantaire remembered as their hands touched. “Valjean’s son?” He remembered Valjean’s twins, fair-haired angels several years younger than him, practically indistinguishable from each other. His father and Thénardier had sneered about them, saying that Valjean wasn’t their real father, and their mother was a whore who’d bewitched the man into taking in her brood. Grantaire let go of Enjolras’ hand quickly, blood rushing to his cheeks with second hand shame.

Enjolras nodded and stood back, giving Grantaire another long, appraising look. “And you’re Grantaire Martineau. What brings you back to Carentan?”

Enjolras didn’t believe him, Grantaire realised, but that could be cleared up soon enough. “The house. My father’s house.”

Enjolras went very still, and only nodded after a long pause. “The Martineau house, yes.”

“After my father died…” Grantaire hesitated, studying Enjolras’ blank face. “I inherited it, didn’t I? By local law, it belongs to me?”

“The deeds came back to the village,” Enjolras said quietly. “Nobody claimed them, and nobody could find you.” Grantaire snorted – he doubted anyone had tried. Enjolras narrowed his eyes just a fraction as he continued. “If this is about what the house is worth, we can clear that up here.”

Grantaire cocked his head. Was Enjolras averse to him because he’d left all those years ago? Or did he want to discourage him from returning now? “What if I wanted to live in it?” he asked, hooking his thumbs in his pockets like Bossuet.

Enjolras’ expression shifted, becoming pained. Grantaire fought the urge to scowl – had he made such a bad impression that this man was already wincing at the idea of being his neighbour? Enjolras shook his head and sighed. “I’m afraid if you are who you say you are, then I have what I suppose is bad news.”

Grantaire stilled. “Oh? Has it been torn down?” He couldn’t have prayed for a better outcome. His hope must have shown in his face, because Enjolras gave him a confused look before shaking his head.

“No, monsieur. The house has occupants. The deeds came back to the village, as I said, and it was bought by the Larocque family some years ago. They had to do a great deal of work before the house was habitable, but it was cheaper than building from scratch.”

Grantaire was staring, he realised distantly. He could hear the wind making the rafters creak, blowing dust against the outside of the hall, and he had to suppress another shiver. “People are living there?”

“They can buy the deed from you,” Enjolras said, perhaps a little desperately. “If it’s money you’re after, you can sell the deed to them and that can be that.”

“People _live_ there? A family?” Grantaire was cold. Fuck, if there were children there –

“They’re good people. Please don’t turn them out of their home.”

Grantaire blinked, trying to ignore his clammy palms and tense shoulders. Enjolras was leaning forward, earnest and worried. Of course, he knew the family. Everyone in Carentan knew everybody else. He looked down and chewed his lip, turning the problem over in his head. He’d come back to either see proof of the house’s demise, or to destroy it himself. He hadn’t considered the possibility of another family having moved in, because legally the deeds were his. And who would want to live there in any case?

Unless they weren’t affected.

He looked at Enjolras, waiting patiently for him to speak. “Are they happy?” At Enjolras’ widening eyes, he clarified. “The family, the Larocques, are they happy there?”

“I believe so.” Enjolras straightened, the hint of a smile playing around his mouth. “They’ve never had any problems after they moved in.”

“How long have they been there?”

“Their sons were born there, so…at least eight or nine years, I think.”

Grantaire rocked back on his heels. Almost a decade. Surely if things had been bad, they wouldn’t have stayed? But it was the parents who would decide that, not the children. “Could I meet them?”

Enjolras’ good cheer vanished, replaced with steely eyes. “If you’re thinking of intimidating them, Monsieur Martineau –”

“Grantaire,” Grantaire cut him off. “My name’s Grantaire. And of course I’m not going to intimidate them, what kind of person do you think I am?”

“I have no idea.” Enjolras gave him a cool look. “For all I know, you might not be Grantaire Martineau at all. Can you prove your identity?”

Grantaire sighed. “I have no papers, but I have memories. I went to school here. Monsieur Myriel and his sister were my teachers, and I remember you and your little sister. You would sit in the front row of village meetings, because your father sits on the council. Or did, at least.” He cast about for more, looking out of the window. “The tavern didn’t used to be on the green. It was a house owned by the Thénardier family. They had two daughters, Éponine and Azelma.”

Enjolras met his triumphant eyes with a slow nod. “You’ll need more than that, but it’s a start.”

“I don’t intend to scare the Larocques. I just want to see if they’re content in that house. If they are…” He took a breath and nodded, deciding. “I’ll give them the deeds, free of charge.”

Enjolras’ eyes lit up, and that almost-smile appeared on his face again. “Is that a promise?”

“It is. But only if they’re happy there, all of them.”

“I don’t doubt that they are.” The smile came, and Grantaire caught his breath. Enjolras was beautiful when he was stern, but with a smile he was breathtaking.

Had they met in an inn on the road, Grantaire would have bought him a drink and flirted shamelessly, but both he and Enjolras were tragically sober. His own features looked their best in half-light, with their observer more than a little inebriated. He looked down, away from the shock of this stranger’s beauty. “May I meet them, then? You can supervise if you like.”

“I can make an arrangement, I expect.” Grantaire glanced up to see Enjolras nod. “Where will I be able to find you?”

“The tavern.” Grantaire jerked his head in the direction of the street. “My friends and I have set up camp there, so to speak.”

“Friends?” Enjolras raised his eyebrows, and Grantaire smiled for the first time since coming into his office.

“You can meet them when you come along. We’re friendly.” Had he a hat, he would have touched the brim. As it was, he’d given his cap to Bossuet when his had blown into a river, and he could only give Enjolras a nod as he turned away and left, boots as loud on exiting as they had been in entrance.

Bossuet, Marius, and Musichetta were waiting in the tavern – Feuilly’s, a name Grantaire didn’t recognise at all – when he came back and sank into the fourth chair at the table. They were in the middle of a card game, so Grantaire stole Bossuet’s drink and sat back to watch, trying to figure out what he would tell them.

He hadn’t expected them to come with him at all, in truth. None of them had ever been so far east, across the River Saiz which marked the unofficial border between civilisation and the wilder parts. They usually travelled through the regions either side of the Louire River, which was rich with prosperous towns and vineyards. Carentan itself was on the other side of a near-impenetrable forest. It had taken them days to hack their way through.

He leaned down and took his fiddle case out from under the table, drumming his fingers on the top. They would play tonight, he was sure, but his fingers were itching now, a strange, almost-familiar anxiety pinching at his lungs as he brushed his thumbs over the latches. This village. It was already cramping him, too tight at the edges. The woods were visible from almost everywhere, a visible boundary between this isolated place and the rest of the world, and the wind was constant, blowing at the windows hard enough to be audible inside even in summer. So far, it was different enough not to have triggered any dormant memories, but he was sure the nightmares would come as soon as he slept. He’d been sleeping badly the whole way here.

He only hoped they wouldn’t have to stay long. They’d only been here an hour or so, but he was already jumping at shadows, worrying about the people who might recognise him, or the ones he would recognise.

Marius was the first to turn to him once their card game ended. “Did you find out what happened to your house?”

Grantaire finished Bossuet’s drink and sighed, picking at a knot in the table top. “It appears a new family moved in some years ago.”

“Is that legal?” Musichetta frowned and Bossuet made a tsk sound, shuffling the cards with expert hands.

“He has been gone for about twenty years. It wasn’t unreasonable of them to assume he’d either died or wouldn’t ever come back.”

Grantaire nodded. “That’s what the lawyer said.” He paused, frowning. “I think he was a lawyer. Though I suppose he would’ve had to leave here to be qualified, so…I don’t know.”

“Did you know him?” Marius asked. He was the most relaxed of all of them here, lanky legs stretched out in front of him as he tilted his chair back. His guitar case skidded against the edge of the table, and Musichetta caught it before it could fall.

“Feet on the ground, Pontmercy.”

Grantaire smiled at Marius’ sheepish laugh and shook his head. “I remember his father, I think. Huge man, incredibly strong. He could lift a loaded cart off the road – I’ve never seen anything like it outside a circus. He and his wife had two little blonde twins, so I suppose this Enjolras was one of them.”

“Enjolras?”

They looked around to see the tavern’s owner, Feuilly, straightening from where he’d been taking the seats off the tables. He smiled crookedly under their eyes, pushing a hand through his ginger hair. “Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing.”

“You know him?” Musichetta leaned back, inviting him in.

“Village this small, everyone knows everyone.” Feuilly gave her a shy nod. “Enjolras is a friend of mine though. One of the best people I know.”

“High praise, I’m sure.” Bossuet gave Grantaire an amused look.

The next time Feuilly brought them drinks, Marius persuaded him to join them for another card game, and Grantaire discovered that the reason he didn’t remember him was because Feuilly had arrived after he’d left. Raised in an orphanage in one of the cities further east, he’d left as soon as he could to find somewhere quiet and small in the country.

“I love this place,” he smiled at the table, rubbing his thumbs over the edge. “People welcomed me and helped me get settled, and I started this business. Carentan’s been good to me. I have friends here.”

Grantaire nodded. He knew what it meant to find friends after spending years alone. Just knowing that someone would notice if he dropped dead was enough most days. Certainly more than he’d ever grown up expecting. Though he could hardly believe Feuilly had found such happiness in Carentan, of all places. But perhaps things really had changed here. Grantaire rarely allowed himself to hope – it only led to disappointment – but he found himself courting it as Feuilly told them enthusiastically about the growth of the village orchard and the successful lambing that spring.

The afternoon was wearing on when the door opened to admit Enjolras, hair tousled from the wind. He gave Feuilly a broad smile as he closed the door, and it faded as he approached Grantaire’s table. “Your friends, I take it?”

Grantaire grinned and gestured, three cups of strong wine putting him in a better mood than he had been in earlier. “Monsieur, may I introduce you to my fellow musicians. Bossuet plays the mandolin with more dexterity and speed than you’d credit a mortal man. Musichetta’s voice is that of a spirit, and her drumming could inspire the dead themselves to get up and dance. Marius here,” he clapped Marius’ shoulder, “we discovered wasting his considerable talents on a roadside, and we kidnapped him for our uses.”

“And what about you?” Enjolras asked, raising an eyebrow. “Or do you just introduce the main act?”

“I fiddle.” Grantaire’s chair scraped against the floorboards as he got to his feet and handed Marius his violin case. “And try to keep up with the others. Have you arranged a meeting?”

“I have.” Enjolras took a step back and frowned at him. “But if you have been drinking –”

“A few over the course of several hours is not drinking, fair lawyer.” Grantaire pulled his coat on. “I’m perfectly capable of respectability. Please lead on, I have no wish to keep you.”

Bossuet snorted, and Grantaire gave him a quick glare while Enjolras wasn’t looking, his eyes upturned as he considered it. “Very well,” he said after a moment. “We’d best go now. If you so much as stumble, it’s off.”

“Luckily, I have excellent balance.” Grantaire smirked and gestured to the door. “After you.”

The cold wind outside was biting after spending so long in front of Feuilly’s stove, and Grantaire cursed under his breath as he buttoned his coat, searching in his pockets for his gloves. The summer sun was almost hot enough to make him sweat, but the wind nipped savagely at his fingers and face. “Are you a lawyer?” he asked suddenly. “I just assumed, I’m afraid. You had the look about you. Or perhaps the desk lent you gravitas.”

Enjolras gave him a strange look, then appeared to decide to ignore whatever odd thing Grantaire had said. “I am qualified,” he affirmed. “I studied in Marçan.”

“Quite the metropolitan.” Marçan was the closest town to Carentan, but Grantaire had never been. He couldn’t imagine it was anything compared to the towns west of the Saiz.

“I suppose you’ve travelled a lot?” Enjolras glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. “Is fiddling prosperous?”

Grantaire laughed, a joke on the tip of his tongue. It died when he saw Enjolras had no hint of a smile on his face. Either he was a master of deadpan humour, or he had no sense of innuendo. Better to err on the side of caution, Grantaire decided. “It depends on the when and where of it. Some places are better than others, but travelling is obviously hardest in winter.”

“You’ve never settled anywhere else?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Not for more than a season. We go back to places, of course, but there’s nowhere I’d want to stay forever. And you can’t stay long anyway – you run out of songs, then you run out of money, and then you’re run out of town.”

Enjolras nodded and fell quiet, and Grantaire watched him for a moment before turning away to study the village. His memories of Carentan were blurrier than he’d expected, compared with the reality. He’d somehow adjusted his mental picture of the village to be larger than it was, and it was a surprise to find out that he couldn’t put names to the families of any of the houses they passed.

Grantaire father’s house was not clustered with the others, or even nearby. Around a curve of the woods and up a bit of a hill towards the north, it stood apart from the others. Built by Grantaire’s grandfather, it appeared taller and narrower than it was, and as soon as it came into view, Grantaire’s breath caught, though not in distress. When he’d left, it had been battered and colourless, ugly in the way that unloved things were ugly. Now, it was painted white like the other houses, the shutters straight, smoke curling up from the chimney.

It looked normal. _Pleasant_. Just like every other house in the village.

His heart was tight, and he had to duck his head as he followed Enjolras up the slope, looking down at the grass instead of their destination. The wind tugged at his coat, flying up his sleeves and down the back of his collar and making him shiver. Once he started he couldn’t seem to stop, trembling as he and Enjolras approached the house.

Did it still creak in storms? Did the roof still leak?

He stopped his thoughts before they could go further, sticking close at Enjolras’ heel as he stepped up onto the porch (neatly cut planks of wood, swept clean with no weeds creeping up between the cracks) and knocked three times on the door. It was opened almost immediately by a tall, brown-haired woman with pink cheeks.

“Enjolras, come in. And this must be Monsieur Martineau.” She gave Grantaire a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and when she shook his hand, her grip was a little too tight.

“Just Grantaire,” he told her, bracing himself as she let go so he was able to look around. It was like seeing two drawings overlapping, one old and one new. He could see the way it had been, the stairs scuffed and dented, the banister missing several railings. There were pictures on the walls now, pinned artwork clearly done by children, and a rug on the floor. The floorboards fit together, the walls were varnished, the place was _warm_.

“Does it look very different?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire had to laugh, though it came out cracked.

“It looks much better. You must have worked very hard,” he said to the woman. The hard edge to her smile melted away and she nodded.

“It took us a long time. You can call me Brigitte.” She led them into the kitchen, which was so transformed Grantaire hardly recognised it. Gone were the filthy curtains and the mouldy patch of wall by the sink. Banished was the smell of rot, and the rows and rows of empty glass bottles along the wall below the window. The stove was lit, a large pot of something savoury simmering, an open cupboard revealing two neat rows of jars filled with different jams.

Grantaire had to touch the doorframe for a moment to remind himself that this was the same house, fingers searching for and finding the little knot in the wood he’d always touched before entering this room when his father occupied it. Was this the same place?

“You kept the table,” he realised, and flushed at how his voice wavered.

Brigitte nodded and rapped her knuckles on the surface. “A lot of the furniture was good, and this table’s the best. Strong as iron.”

But too tall, Grantaire saw, remembering. Too high off the ground to be a reliable hiding place. He clutched at the doorframe and leaned into it, making himself look away so he wouldn’t be staring.

The back door opened, and a man with coal-black hair and a trimmed moustache entered with an armful of freshly cut wood. Léon Larocque was even taller than his wife, and despite his intimidating appearance, he had an easier smile and a loud laugh, and when Grantaire asked if he could speak to their children, he lit up and left to get them.

“Enjolras said you had sons born here?” Grantaire tried to fill the silence once Léon was gone.

“And my youngest daughter.” Brigitte drew herself up. “Angelique was born at my parents’ house, but Baptiste, Alec, and Eulalie were all born here. They’ve lived here all their lives.” Grantaire marked the weight of her words and nodded, praying that all would be well and he could leave this family behind and go on his way. And preferably live out the rest of his life without ever setting foot in Carentan again.

Footsteps clattered and thumped overhead and down the stairs, and a moment later Léon ushered the children in. Grantaire grinned at the sight, unable to help it. Angelique couldn’t be older than eleven, skinny calves and ankles visible proof of a recent growth spurt, uncovered as they were by her skirts. The boys were alike enough to be twins, and a toddler squirmed in Léon’s arms, whines turning to a shriek of laughter when she was bounced in the air.

“Good afternoon.” He went down on one knee to see their faces better, meeting Angelique’s suspicious gaze with a smile. “You must be Angelique, which means you,” he turned to the boys, “must be Alec and Baptiste. Can I guess who’s who?”

The taller boy nodded, and Grantaire chewed his lip, giving a show of deep thought. “You are Baptiste,” he decided, pointing at the smaller one. “And you are Alec.”

“How did you know?” Baptiste blurted.

“I guessed.” Grantaire sat back on his heels and laughed. “It was a fifty-fifty chance, after all. Tell me,” he looked between the three of them. “Which one of you has the room at the end of the corridor upstairs? The one with the crooked window?”

“We do,” said Alec. Baptiste glanced at his older brother and fiddled with the collar of his shirt, rubbing a worn part at the corner with his thumb.

“Have you ever looked at the wall by the floor?” Grantaire looked up at Brigitte when they shook their heads. “May I show them something? Just a mark from when I lived here.”

“Go ahead,” Léon gestured, broad smile a contrast to Brigitte’s narrow eyes.

“I’ll go with them,” Enjolras assured her, and Grantaire brushed dust from his trousers as he rose to his feet and smiled at the children.

“Lead the way.”

Angelique watched them like a hawk as Grantaire and Enjolras followed the boys upstairs. Grantaire had to dig his nails into the palm of his hand to keep himself focused on the present, looking around for the scuffs that no longer existed, the bulging wood panels in the walls that had been replaced. It looked like a home, not just a house, and Grantaire tried to push down the growing bubble of hope in his chest. He couldn’t rush this decision. He had to be sure.

His old bedroom was beautiful. Two little beds lay neatly made against opposite walls, the crooked window between them. Grantaire laughed and got down on his knees by the bed on the right. “Which one of you sleeps here?”

“Guess,” Angelique said archly before either of her brothers could answer. Grantaire pursed his lips and considered it, looking between the beds.

“This one’s Baptiste’s.”

“You were right again!” Baptiste bounced forward, coming round to kneel next to him. “How did you know?”

Alec sat on his own bed. “Did you guess again?”

“I did indeed. I guess I’m just lucky today. Now look, if it’s still there…” He crouched down and peered under the bed, laughing when he saw it. “There, see? That mark on the wall?”

Alec crawled down next to Baptiste and said after a moment, “Is it an R?”

“My name.” Grantaire knelt up again and grinned up at Enjolras. “Grand R.”

Enjolras had been frowning, but when he realised the pun he rolled his eyes and smiled reluctantly. “Grand-Aire, capital R, I get it.”

R for reject, Grantaire remembered. For rank, repulsive, revolting. For rat. He shifted back from the bed a bit and looked up at Enjolras. “Believe me now?”

The slightest nod, and Grantaire gave him a wan smile in silent reply before turning so he could see all three children. This was the important bit, and he could only hope Enjolras wouldn’t interfere. “Can I tell you something?”

Angelique stepped a little closer, and Baptiste nodded. Grantaire looked between them, waiting until he was sure he had their full attention. “I didn’t come here to talk to your parents. I came to talk to you.” Above them, Enjolras made a move as though to reach out, and Grantaire held a hand up to stop him without looking. “To ask you a few questions, in fact. Can I do that?” He addressed the question to Angelique, who considered it for a few long seconds before nodding.

Enjolras shook his head. “Grantaire –”

“Just a couple of questions,” Grantaire insisted, keeping his eyes on the children. “I just wanted to ask about the cellar.”

And oh, there it was. He went cold as the boys exchanged a look and Angelique touched Baptiste’s shoulder, her face too serious for such a seemingly trivial question. Grantaire pressed his nails into his palm and took a breath before continuing. “Do your parents use it?”

Angelique shook her head. “They were going to, but they said we didn’t need to. Maman says she should use it for her preserves, but she still makes them with Grand-mère.”

“Do you ever go in there?” They all shook their heads emphatically. A perfect lead into the next question. “Why?”

They were all quiet for a few seconds. Baptiste bit his lip, then blurted, “It’s scary.”

“Why?” Grantaire repeated softly.

“Do you know what’s in there?” Angelique asked, pulling Baptiste back against her body, eyes fierce. “Is there something in there?”

“I…used to be very scared of the cellar here,” Grantaire told her, acutely aware of Enjolras standing off to his left. “I wanted to know if things had changed.”

“They have nightmares,” Angelique lowered her voice. “Papa opened the door to prove nothing was down there, but it didn’t make any difference.”

“They?” Grantaire frowned.

“Us.” Alec glanced at Baptiste, plump little cheeks turning pink. “I don’t anymore.”

“Liar.” Baptiste started playing with his collar again, rubbing and rubbing at the soft bit he’d made.

“But you don’t have the nightmares?” Grantaire looked at Angelique again, curious now.

“I wasn’t born here.” She frowned for the first time, chewing the inside of her cheek. Downstairs, there was the sound of plates rattling together, footsteps as Brigitte and Léon moved around in the kitchen. Grantaire tapped the floor, drawing the children’s attention back to him.

“What sort of nightmares are they?”

Baptiste leaned back into Angelique and looked at Alec, the two of them communicating something in silence. Grantaire waited patiently, and met Alec’s eyes when he turned to face him. “It’s just dark.”

“And there’s the boy,” Baptiste added quickly.

“Boy?” Grantaire raised his eyebrows. That was new.

Baptiste nodded. “The screaming boy. He’s locked in.”

The chill that had appeared when Grantaire first asked about the cellar took root and spread down his arms and back. He whispered without meaning to, “You can hear him screaming?”

“He’s locked in,” Baptiste repeated, eyes wide. “He wants to be let out.”

“He says things?” Grantaire breathed, thinking of the cellar door in the parlour, that darkest corner of the room, the tallest door in the house, the way it swung open so easily, beckoning –

“He wants to get out.” Baptiste didn’t look away from him. “He screams – he says he’ll be good, he always screams for his papa –”

“Stop.” Grantaire scrambled backwards, pushing himself up to his feet with one hand on Alec’s bed, cold sweat dampening his palms. “Stop, that’s enough.” The children were staring at him, Enjolras too, and Grantaire forced himself to breathe, keep breathing, and tried to ignore the lurking sense of the cellar door downstairs. He knew the house’s layout. The parlour was below the main bedroom, but he could still feel it. Like a black whirlpool, or the throat of some unnatural creature.

“Did you have the nightmares too?” Alec asked, painfully hopeful. Grantaire had to shake his head, but the question calmed him enough to be able to speak again.

“No, not those nightmares. I just had the darkness nightmares.” They knew what he meant, he could tell. “Listen, if you could live in another house, a house without a cellar at all, would you be happier?”

Enjolras made a small, angry sound, which Grantaire ignored. Angelique was the first to nod. “Maman doesn’t understand,” she said quietly. “I’m the one who has to close the door when it opens.”

Grantaire had forgotten that. How had he forgotten that? The way he would walk into the parlour and see the open door and the darkness beyond, a gaping maw waiting for him to come close enough to trap. It had been a gut-punch every time, no matter how often it happened. He’d never been able to close it without shivering. And Angelique was doing that now. She was the one trying to keep her little brothers safe. And the little sister would follow, no doubt, born in this house as she had been.

He imagined little Eulalie toddling up to the open cellar door and felt sick to his stomach.

“I understand,” he muttered, and dredged up a poor attempt at a smile. “Let’s go back downstairs. Thank you,” he added, following them out of his old bedroom and down the stairs. “I’m very glad I could speak to you.”

“Will you make the cellar stop being…” Alec trailed off, and Grantaire rubbed his forehead.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Enjolras was bristling behind him, he could feel it, but he just leaned into the kitchen to give Brigitte and Léon a tired smile. “Thank you for letting me come here, really. Thank you.” He waved before they could reply. “I know the way out.”

He brushed past Enjolras and hurried out of the front door, not daring to even glance at the parlour. If he looked and the cellar door was open… No. He couldn’t. Outside the wind tore his coat open, the sides flapping wildly until he pulled them under control. He couldn’t believe he’d looked up at this house and thought things might be different. A new coat of paint and a few replaced furnishings couldn’t change the rotten core.

He flinched when the door opened and Enjolras came out, face like thunder, hair whipped up the moment he stepped into the wind. “What the hell was that?”

He was stunning, and Grantaire turned his back on him and began to walk back to the village. “I didn’t come back to live in the house,” he said as soon as Enjolras caught up, still radiating fury. “I came back to burn it.”

Enjolras choked. “You can’t! You can’t burn it! The Larocques live there!”

“And they’re not happy.” Grantaire squinted, hunching his shoulders against the wind.

“The children? You’re going to burn their home down because they’ve had a few nightmares? All children have nightmares!”

“Not like these ones!” Grantaire snapped, feeling the house looming behind him like something huge about to fall. If he didn’t get out of its shadow, he’d be crushed. “You wouldn’t understand, you’ve never lived there.”

“My home had a cellar too.” Enjolras’ lip curled, cheeks going pink with cold. “It’s just a cellar. It’s just a hole in the ground.”

“So’s a grave. You don’t understand.”

“Monsieur Martineau –”

“ _Grantaire!_ ” he shouted, walking faster down the hill. “My name is Grantaire. Monsieur Martineau was my father.” And what a father he’d been. His eyes stung, and he shook his head to try and clear it. “You don’t understand,” he said again, Enjolras walking on his left, keeping pace. “Their nightmares are different to mine. They heard…” Just thinking it hollowed his chest, turned his stomach.

“A screaming boy?” Enjolras snorted.

“The boy is me.” Grantaire was wind, ash and dust, empty and breathless. “That’s me they’re hearing in that cellar.”

Enjolras was quiet, and for a moment Grantaire wondered if he’d heard him over the wind in the trees, whistling through the branches. “That’s not possible,” he said at last. “You’re here. And you’re not a boy, for goodness sakes.”

Grantaire couldn’t stop the explanation being drawn up, pulled from his throat as though he couldn’t control his own tongue. “My father locked me in the cellar, once.” He swallowed, but his rebellious mouth ignored convention and opened again. “I screamed – the words they said, exactly what Batiste said, I screamed that.” Scream didn’t do it justice. He’d beaten himself bloody against the door trying to get out, howled himself hoarse. He’d shrieked and begged and pleaded to be let out, but his father had left him in there all night. And somehow part of him had been trapped there, caught behind the door, still screaming so loudly that children he hadn’t known at the time would even exist could hear him.

“It’s just a cellar,” Enjolras said again, and Grantaire pushed his hair out of his face. He didn’t want to see Enjolras’ expression. He didn’t want to see if it matched his disbelieving tone.

“The house is mine,” he muttered. “I’m burning it down.”

“And what about the Larocques?” Enjolras asked, icy.

“I’ll build them a new house.” That shut Enjolras up. Tension Grantaire didn’t even know he’d been holding eased from his shoulders as they passed round the trees, out of sight of the house.

“You’ll _build_ them a new house.” Disbelief dripped from every perfectly enunciated syllable like sap, and Grantaire sighed. “Being a musician must pay better than I thought,” Enjolras continued sarcastically. “You must be raking it in. Do you have any idea what it costs to build a house from scratch?”

“I have the money.” Grantaire pushed his hands deep in his pockets and tipped his head back, looking up at the sky. The circling clouds had thickened, dusk turning them blue as the sun set behind the treeline. He couldn’t help feeling smothered. “I’ll show you, if you like. Enough silver to build a village. More than enough for one house.” He finally made himself look at Enjolras. “I’ll give them a new house, made however they like, built wherever they choose. And then I’m going to gut the hellhole they’re living in now, and burn it to the ground.” And he might salt the remains, if possible.

Perhaps if he burned it right down to the foundations, he’d free that trapped part of himself stuck screaming behind the cellar door. And maybe his own nightmares would finally end.

“You’re insane,” Enjolras declared.

“I’m rich.” Grantaire countered. “I’ll pay for everything. They deserve better. They deserve to feel safe. All children should be safe in their homes.” Enjolras could hardly argue with that.

“Where did you get all of this money from then?” he huffed, clearly suspicious.

Grantaire had to smile, tired. “I inherited it.”

 

The path through the woods to Carentan was near impassable in places. They had clambered over fallen trees, hacked their way through undergrowth, and trekked up and down endless hills. They had run out of food after four days. On the sixth, they reached the part of the wood Grantaire actually recognised, and made their one deviation from it.

Grantaire had led them through the trees, checking and double checking that they were on the right track. And eventually, they’d found the burned stump, and several paces uphill from there, the yew tree, thankfully still deep enough in the forest to be undisturbed by people grazing their animals.

“What’s so special about this tree?” Marius panted as Grantaire knelt in front of it.

“It’s got a box buried under the roots,” Grantaire told him, pushing his fingers into the soft earth and digging it up in handfuls.

Musichetta leaned against Bossuet and huffed, both of them sweating in the sun pouring down between the trees. It was proof they were close to the village – in the deep woods and along the path, the trees had been so close together that they had seemed trapped in a perpetual twilight. “What’s in the box?”

“Hopefully, silver.”

“Is it yours?”

“It is now.” Grantaire grinned over his shoulder at them, up to his wrists in damp soil. “My grandfather was a merchant or something, probably something less honourable, but let’s say he was a merchant. He built the house in Carentan, and buried his money in the woods so no one else could get it. My father was so paranoid about it being stolen, and so stingy about spending more than a penny on anything other than booze, that he never used it. So now it’s mine.”

“That’d make a good song.” Bossuet seized the tale. “Make the grandfather a pirate, sick of the sea – the woods are a substitute, just as dark and deep and deadly –”

“Nice,” Grantaire nodded approvingly.

“He’s a villain, cruel and greedy. Beats his wife and children, killed by fellow villagers, and becomes a ghost haunting his stolen silver. His son tries to reclaim it, but the ghost drives him off, and attacks anyone who comes anywhere near it. It ends up becoming a family legend, all but forgotten, and…end on a verse about the woods being the ocean, hiding secrets. Drowned treasure or buried, makes no difference.”

“Make the woods ocean bit the chorus,” Grantaire advised. “Repetitive.” His fingers twitched, the urge to play his violin suddenly strong, a surprise after the oppressive quiet of the last week. They hadn’t sung or played a note on the path, wary of drawing the attention of wild animals or unfriendly strangers. Musichetta knelt next to him and started to shift the clods of earth he’d already dug up. She was a good luck charm, it seemed: just a moment later, Grantaire’s fingers found the top of a wooden box.

“Real buried treasure,” Bossuet breathed, sounding half a boy as the chest was lifted up into the air, the dirt and mud brushed from the outside, the ancient padlock inspected. Musichetta didn’t even tease, just shook her head and laughed.

“You need to break this off,” Marius said, fingers fluttering over the rusty padlock. “It’s too old to pick.”

“Allow me.” Bossuet unlaced his boot and turned the box towards himself, aiming the heel at the padlock. When he struck, the padlock held, but the wood of the chest itself cracked and splintered, rotted through. Silver spilled through the gaps, and Marius gasped. Grantaire took a deep breath and knelt in front of it, pulling the planks apart.

“That is so much money,” Marius whispered, kneeling next to him.

“You had all this the whole time we’ve known you?” Bossuet sounded like he couldn’t decide whether to sound indignant or amused. “All those times we’ve slept on the street because we couldn’t afford rooms or went hungry because we couldn’t buy food, you had a whole trunk of silver hidden in this forest?”

“It reminds me of my father,” Grantaire shrugged helplessly. “And after I crossed the Saiz the first time, I never wanted to come back again.”

“We need to count it,” Musichetta said, already sorting the coins into piles of ten. They were all identical, some so worn they were unmarked discs. A few had words in an unfamiliar language stamped into them, a crest none of them recognised on the other side. Some were so tarnished they were almost black, but they were still unmistakably silver.

There were three hundred and sixty-two coins at the end of their count. Three hundred and sixty-two pieces of freedom from hunger, hard beds, and poor wine. They split it between them to spread the load, but Grantaire felt it all weighing on his mind. Three hundred and sixty-two silver coins of unknown value, secreted in the woods for who knew how long. Nineteen years at least since Grantaire’s father had died and he had fled. He’d been in too much of a hurry to get away to think of pausing to dig for it then, and in retrospect that decision had probably saved his life. Had he taken it, he would’ve used it to drink himself unconscious in the first inn he came to, and doubtless been killed and robbed for the rest.

Enjolras stared at the ten silver coins Grantaire laid across his desk. “There’s more of this?”

“Much more.”

“And your father just had this buried in the woods for all those years?”

“He said it was cursed – every time he used any for himself, things went wrong for him.” Grantaire shrugged. “And he thought if he showed any around here, he’d be robbed.” Enjolras gaped, incredulity turning to offence.

“Robbed? In Carentan?”

“Certainly. He wasn’t exactly popular.” Grantaire picked up one of the coins and rubbed his thumb over the unfamiliar words on it. “I’ve got enough to pay for a new house to be built for the Larocques. I’ll listen to any advice you give me, I’ll hire people here to do the building and everything. The family can design the place themselves.”

Enjolras took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful frown setting two thin lines into his forehead. “They’ll have to work fast to get it done by the harvests, if that can even be done. And the autumn rain will slow things down by days at a time, you know.”

“I’ll do whatever you say needs doing. I’ll help with the building myself – I’ve done enough of that before.”

“You’ll build them a new house with your own hands just so you can burn your old one down?” Enjolras looked up at him and raised his eyebrows. “You don’t believe in curses, but you believe that’s really necessary?”

“I do. It is.” For himself if no one else. Grantaire hooked his thumbs in his pockets and nodded to the money. “You can get that valued, yes?”

“It will require a trip to Marçan, but I can have that done, yes. Provided you pay, of course.”

“Of course.” The corner of Grantaire’s mouth lifted in a crooked smile. “I’ve got enough for that even if the silver’s worth nothing, which I doubt.”

“How much more do you have, out of interest?”

“Over fifty.” Grantaire wasn’t as sure of the village’s morality as Enjolras seemed to be. “How soon can it be valued?”

Enjolras pursed his lips and opened a drawer. Paper rustled as he looked inside, and he pulled a piece out to study. “Within the week.”

“Tomorrow?”

“It’s a day’s journey to Marçan, and preparations need to be made first,” Enjolras said, steely.

“But building should start as soon as possible, right?” Grantaire leaned back on his heels, eager to be on his way. “So the sooner the better.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Enjolras conceded, and gave him a hard look. “It also falls to me to inform the Larocques of your decision.”

Grantaire nodded. The children would be happy, he was sure. That was all that mattered. “Tell them I’m sorry,” he said anyway. “And that their new house will be better. It’ll be theirs, for a start, not someone else’s wreck.” He turned away, a floorboard creaking under his boot as he went to the door. “I’ll be in the tavern if you need me. You should come tonight,” he added on impulse, giving Enjolras a last look over his shoulder. “We’ll be playing.”

“How could I resist?” Enjolras rolled his eyes, and Grantaire almost bumped into the wall as he left. The meeting hall was filled with shadows in the dusky light, and the sky outside was dark blue, the clouds paler grey against it.

Golden light from the windows of Feuilly’s tavern drew him along the green, chatter from inside just audible over the wind. As he reached the door, he noticed something around the door he hadn’t seen earlier. Carvings, he realised, touching them with his fingertips. Miniature twisting vines and ivy climbing up either side of the doorframe. “Feuilles,” he laughed, understanding. He was still smiling as he went in, and fell into his chair from earlier.

Marius, Bossuet, and Musichetta hadn’t moved, but several other tables were occupied now. Men in plain, dark clothes, their hats either on their laps or hanging by the door. The women mostly wore long skirts, their hair pulled up out of their faces. Here and there were children, their stares more open and appraising than those of the adults, who glanced at the strangers side-on, not willing to commit to gawking.

Grantaire cast surreptitious glances around, trying to see if there was anyone he remembered. The adults he’d known from before would be twenty years older now, of course, or possibly even dead. There was no one in the tavern he could reliably identify at present, but who knew whether that would remain the case?

“They’ll either love us or tear us to bits,” Bossuet said dryly, kicking Grantaire’s foot under the table. “How’d it go?”

Grantaire sighed and leaned his elbows on the table, ducking his head and rubbing his hands through his hair to the back of his neck. “I’m going to have to stay here for a while,” he muttered eventually, the words dredged up from an unwilling throat. “Months, maybe. How long does it take to build a house?”

“You’re building a house?” Marius whispered. They all leaned in, cued by Grantaire’s low voice.

“For the family who currently lives in my old one. I need to burn that house down, but I can’t just turn them out with nowhere to go.”

“You could,” Musichetta pointed out. “They’ve got family who would take them in, don’t they?”

Grantaire shook his head as Bossuet nudged her reprovingly. “They’ve got four kids. I’m not kicking them onto the street. I’m sorry.” He lifted his head and sighed. “I shouldn’t’ve dragged you into this in the first place.”

“Horseshit,” Bossuet grinned. “We wanted to come. None of us have ever been east of the Saiz before, Aire. It’s an adventure! And hey, so what if you have to stay a bit? We could tour the towns and villages around here and come back when the house is done to pick you up if needs be. Have a drink and cheer up.”

“We’re playing tonight.” Marius squeezed his arm and smiled. “At least there’s that.”

It actually did cheer Grantaire up.

Feuilly didn’t give them the nod for another hour, by which time the volume level in the tavern had grown significantly as the wine and cider flowed and the children were sent away. Their table was by the wall, so with Feuilly’s help they shoved it out of the way and helped him ferry their chairs into a side room so that they could have a little space.

“What’re you doing then?” a man shouted as they started to get their instruments out and tune up, Musichetta lounging in a chair next to Marius, her drum resting on her knee.

“Preparing to entertain you, good sir,” Bossuet called back, showman’s smile in place. He plucked a few strings on his mandolin and checked with Grantaire and Marius on his right and left respectively before starting to actually play, the familiar notes clashing for a moment with the voices of their audience before they quieted down, intrigued.

Grantaire tucked his violin under his chin and cast a quick look out over the villagers. He saw curiosity, open mouths, a few frowns, and he lowered his eyes and lifted his bow, fingers already in place on the strings. He could play this song in his sleep. The slide of the notes, his fingers on the strings, the tune going from low to sweetly high.

Marius came in last, the three of them keeping the tune gentle, meandering until they had the tavern’s full attention. For most songs, Bossuet took the lead, but for this Grantaire was the one who sped up his part, slowly at first. Then the mandolin and guitar joined in and the three of them burst into it together, Musichetta’s stick rattling over the skin of her drum to deepen the rhythm. Grantaire could practically hear the atmosphere change around them, frowns becoming smiles as the music entered clapping and foot-stamping territory.

His bow bounced on the strings as the tune jumped, fingertips stinging as his lack of practice over the last week made itself known. But what did he care? The song soared, his body swaying to the rhythm of it. He could just see Bossuet out of the corner of his eye, half-dancing the way he did when the speed was up, torso curved over his little mandolin. Of the three of them, Bossuet was the most gifted, pick moving faster than Grantaire could believe possible, Marius’ louder guitar the perfect backing for the mandolin’s higher notes. Grantaire flew over and between both, smooth where they were sharp, and Musichetta tied them all together, keeping them in time.

They ended on a few short notes and a flair, and their audience clapped and cheered their approval. Grantaire wondered when they’d last heard any half-decent music. There had been a piano in the meeting hall when he’d been a child, he was fairly sure, and of course old Michaud had played the violin. But he’d died before Grantaire had left, so the village probably hadn’t heard a fiddle since.

“Thank you, good people!” Bossuet shouted cheerfully, in his element in front of a happy crowd. He began to strum his mandolin. “We are but poor wandering musicians, here to entertain at your pleasure – my name is Bossuet.” Musichetta began to drum up a brisk pattern, her wrist loose and easy. “Our enchanting drummer is Musichetta.” He nodded to Marius, who began to join in on his guitar. “This talented young gentleman is Marius.” Grantaire drew his bow over the fiddle strings as Bossuet turned to him with a grin. “And man with the dangerous elbow is our very own Grantaire!”

Perfectly timed, they launched into the next song. Grantaire kept his eyes on his fingerboard, not wanting to see if anyone had recognised him. Focusing on playing had always come easy for him, and he concentrated on that, letting everything but the tune fade away. They didn’t always have good nights – sometimes one of them would lose time or miss their cue or plain fuck up the song – but tonight was better than a good night. On rare occasions they could make the place they played dance with them, the air itself pulsing, everything just right. This was such an occasion.

How his father would have raged to see him play like this, here in Carentan. The thought startled a laugh from him, happily defiant of the old man’s memory. He was here; he hadn’t stopped playing. Not even beaten, bruised fingers had stopped him. He was playing every note right, the strain in his arms and the light pain in his fingers sweet and good.

He had his violin tucked under his chin and friends at his sides. His father could rot in hell and Grantaire would take the time tomorrow to go and spit on his grave just because he could.

The door opened halfway through their fifth song, a slower tune Marius had helped to compose, and Grantaire glanced up on instinct to see Enjolras coming in. Full of wine and euphoria from their good reception, he smiled in greeting when their eyes met. When the song ended, he touched Bossuet’s elbow and made his way over.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Bossuet called as he picked his way around a table. “We are but humble travellers, and your generosity is much appreciated. Food, drink, and money are our favourite gifts.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire smiled, a little out of breath as he finally got to the table Enjolras had found a place at. It was shared by three women and three other men. “I hoped you would come and hear us,” he said, dipping his head to the others. “I saw you earlier,” he realised, looking between Enjolras and the woman who had to be his twin.

She smiled – it transformed her face just the way it did Enjolras’, like the sun bursting from the clouds – and offered a hand. Grantaire had to tuck his bow and fiddle under his arm to shake it. “Cosette,” she said. “I understand you’re the long-lost Martineau boy.”

Boy again. He’d been a man when he’d left. Grantaire nodded, hoping his cheeks weren’t too red. “That’s me. I hope you’ll all forgive me when I say I don’t remember any of your faces,” he added, addressing the table at large. “I left a long time ago, and my memory isn’t what it should be.”

One of the men smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Combeferre, a teacher at the school. Enjolras, shouldn’t you be handling introductions?”

“Oh.” Enjolras nodded, looking a little flustered. He gestured to the other two men. “Grantaire, this is Courfeyrac and Joly, our village doctor. And this,” he indicated the women as Grantaire’s mind tripped over the fact that Joly had to be Doctor Amiot’s son, “is Irma, and Floreal. They both work on their family farms.”

Floreal was the next to claim his hand in a strong grip, her hair falling out of its bun in blonde-brown wisps. “Pleasure to meet you.” Irma just nodded, her smile much smaller.

“And Cosette is my sister, as I’m sure you’ve figured out. Shouldn’t you be playing?” he added uncertainly, looking behind him.

Grantaire turned and looked at Bossuet, who had started playing again. “My cue is coming up,” he agreed, and couldn’t resist smirking at Enjolras. “I’m touched by your concern, monsieur. I hope I impress.”

Enjolras took a breath, straightening in his chair. “I can’t be impressed by your playing unless you actually play.”

One of his friends hissed his name, but Grantaire just laughed. “I’d better get to it then. I certainly wouldn’t want to disappoint.” He couldn’t resist winking, and was rewarded by a bright flush blooming in Enjolras’ cheeks as he backed away and found his place next to Bossuet again just in time for his part to come in.

It was the perfect song to show off. He began with a few long, low notes, playing backseat to Bossuet’s mandolin and then Marius’ guitar as they both took turns showing their skill. And as Marius finished he jumped in, bow flying, body arching into the music. The first chance he’d had on leaving Carentan, he’d bought a violin. Bought another when the first one was broken six years later, and he’d had this one ever since. Nothing made him feel as free and whole as playing music, and with Bossuet, Musichetta, and Marius it was even better. When they sang together as well, it was sublime.

“Thank you very much!” Bossuet had left his mandolin case on the floor in front of them, and there was already a fair amount of money in there, as well as a couple of scraps of paper Grantaire was willing to bet were promises of other goods. “I hope your good cheer won’t be harmed by the addition of our voices to this beautiful village. Does anyone here know The Fox?” It was apparently well-known even east of the Saiz, and there were a few answering cheers. Bossuet beamed. “Excellent! I encourage you to sing along!” He leapt straight into it, and people joined in immediately.

Grantaire restricted himself to mouthing the words. Playing he could do, but of the four of them, his voice was easily the poorest, and was poor by anyone’s standards. He could say he was a decent fiddler, but he couldn’t sing to save his life. Still, it was hard to be bitter when the others sounded so fine.

His eyes slipped half-closed, focusing only on the music, his fingers pressing down the strings as his bow soared and mingled with the other instruments and the voices around him. In moments like this, he was as bright and alive as the stars.

 

The chairs scraped as they pulled them up and out of the way of Marius’ broom. As thanks for letting them play, they were cleaning up the tavern for Feuilly, and after that Bossuet would broach the issue of sleeping arrangements. Feuilly’s tavern was small, and it wasn’t an inn. They’d learned that the second storey was split between storage and Feuilly’s own quarters, so they could only hope that he would let them sleep on the floor in the main room.

They weren’t alone as they cleaned. Grantaire sneaked looks out of the corner of his eye at Enjolras and his friends as he wiped down the small tables; as Feuilly’s friends they were also allowed to stay after closing time.

The farm girls had excused themselves, along with Enjolras’ sister, but the others remained. They talked quietly with Feuilly while the band cleaned around them, Bossuet and Musichetta making little effort to hide their flirting. Music often put them in a frisky mood, and while Grantaire was long-used to hearing them have sex in the dark, poor Marius was already grimacing.

“Grantaire!”

He turned, raising his eyebrows when he saw Enjolras beckoning. Hesitantly, he left his rag on the table and sidled over. “Good evening.”

“I was just wondering where you were going to sleep tonight,” Enjolras asked, calm when Grantaire floundered and looked over to Bossuet, shifting at the feeling of so many eyes on him, so many strangers expecting an answer. This was why Bossuet was their frontman – Grantaire and Marius were terrible with strangers.

“We, er…” He stalled, catching Bossuet’s eye and gesturing him over. “Um, we haven’t really got anything figured out…”

“You can’t sleep in here,” Enjolras said. “There aren’t any beds.”

That startled a laugh from Grantaire. “Beds? We haven’t slept in beds for months now.”

“Well we can change that.” Courfeyrac smiled broadly as Bossuet reached them. “Between us we surely have enough mattresses to put you at ease. Combeferre and I have a spare, and Joly –”

“If you and your…” Joly glanced over at Musichetta and blushed a little. “If you two share a bed, I have room for you at my house.”

Bossuet’s smile was something Grantaire didn’t think he’d ever seen before, surprised and charmed and warm all at once. “If we wouldn’t be imposing, we’d love to.” He and Joly didn’t look away from each other, and Enjolras cleared his throat, glancing at Grantaire.

“I have a spare bed, if you wouldn’t mind being parted from your friends.”

Grantaire’s brain didn’t catch up in time for him to stop himself saying, “For a bed, I’d sing you to sleep.” He laughed to cover his embarrassment, but Bossuet’s foot still nudged his; a warning. Grantaire had gotten them in trouble before by misreading signs from other men or coming on too strong and getting them all chased out of town. And that was the least that could happen. In an isolated village like this, a wrong step could be fatal if the locals thought ill of such things.

Grantaire stuffed his hands in his pockets, regretting how much he’d had to drink.

Meanwhile, Combeferre and Courfeyrac claimed Marius, taking him under their wings like a lost duckling, and Feuilly told them he’d finish cleaning up. “You’ve done most of the work anyway, and you brought in excellent business tonight.”

Grantaire held tight to the straps of his pack as he walked alongside Enjolras out of the tavern. “I share a house with two others,” he told Grantaire, almost completely obscured by the darkness. At least the wind had dropped. “We each have a separate floor. Lucien Baudet is perhaps three years younger than me – his parents have too many children, and as the oldest, there simply wasn’t room for him, so he’s living away while he tries to find a partner he can start a family with. And Monsieur Roussel is in his eighties. He and his wife had no children, and after she died he didn’t want to live in their house anymore. He has the ground floor, I have the second, and Baudet has the attic.”

“No women?”

Enjolras stared at him. “Certainly not.”

Grantaire smiled, shaking his head. “It was a joke, monsieur.”

“Oh.” Enjolras looked forward again, his expression unreadable in the gloom. They left the green and passed between two dark houses, the ground beneath Grantaire’s boots changing from compressed dirt to grass. “You can call me Enjolras,” he said after a minute.

Grantaire looked at him, and found that Enjolras was looking at him too. “Enjolras it is,” Grantaire agreed, and thought he saw Enjolras’ lips turn up in a small smile.

The house Enjolras lived in was on the edge of the village, a large squareish building with stairs on the outside instead of within. “For Monsieur Roussel’s convenience,” Enjolras explained as they ascended. “So he won’t be disturbed.” He opened the door and reached immediately for a candle on a ledge just inside, lighting it with the ease of practice from a small stove.

They’d entered the kitchen, Grantaire saw, following Enjolras inside and closing the door behind himself. Large and spacious, with a solid table in the middle of it and a big metal tub tucked in the corner that Grantaire assumed was for washing in. Enjolras walked on, and Grantaire followed to a short hallway with three doors, the one at the end closed.

Through the open door on the right, he saw a parlour, caught a glimpse of worn but comfortable-looking furniture and a fireplace. The open door on the left opened into what he assumed was Enjolras’ bedroom. Enjolras led him to the last door and opened it for him. “I hope you don’t mind the mess,” he said as Grantaire stepped over the threshold. “This room is fairly neglected.”

The bed was small and narrow, and there were boxes and piles of books and paper against the walls, scattered haphazardly across the floorboards. “It’s luxury,” Grantaire assured him, body already eager for a mattress to sink into. “Thank you.”

A little tension eased from Enjolras’ expression, and he smiled. “Make yourself comfortable. The outhouse –”

“I saw it,” Grantaire assured him, swinging his pack off his shoulders and onto the floor. “Will someone be able to go to Marçan tomorrow?”

A line appeared between Enjolras’ eyebrows, but he nodded. “Monsieur Danis is willing to take his sons to town, and Combeferre and I will accompany them to get your money valued.”

Grantaire sat down on the edge of the bed and smiled. “Thank him for me if I don’t get the chance.”

“I will.” Enjolras hovered awkwardly, then bent to put the candle on the floor. “Goodnight, Mons – Grantaire.”

He backed out of the room before Grantaire could reply, and he flopped back on the bed with an amused sound. Were he not treading carefully, he might have followed and asked Enjolras if he kept anything stronger than wine in his house. Perhaps started a fire, a card game, the two of them sitting close on that comfortable looking couch he’d seen.

But the fire of his imagination wasn’t enough to warm him in real life, so he blew out the candle, kicked his boots off, and crawled into bed, sighing as the mattress dipped under his weight. No stones or roots digging into his back, no mud clinging to his shirt, no bugs or spiders creeping over him in the night.

Well, spiders were a possibility, but he hadn’t seen any cobwebs – Enjolras was clearly a tidy man. Grantaire wondered what he’d been like as a child. What all of them had been like. They were all younger than him, he thought, except for Combeferre. He must have shared classes with some – Mathematics. Even after so many years, he still flushed at the memory of it; the humiliation of sharing classes with students so much younger because his abilities were so poor.

His father had been so angry when he’d been kept back. Angrier still, when he’d been sent down another class. Grantaire shivered and pulled the sheets over his head, acutely feeling the absence of Marius and Bossuet and Musichetta. He hadn’t slept alone for a very long time.

 

_The house creaks-eaks around him, every noise amplified. Every noise could be his father, and he’s frozen stick stock stone solid even as his fibres scream that he needs to get out, his bones creaking like the rafters in their sockets, sinew stretching with nowhere to go, he needs to get away, he needs to get out-out-out._

_Time shifts and his father is in front of him. They’re sitting at the table, and the food has rotted on their plates, sticky with bad smells, slick with slime, and the air shivers like tarnished silver, sick, shining, shimmering like oil on water. He sees it before it happens, the colours rippling outwards, but it still sends cannoning sharp stakes into him when his father roars into action. He runs, father on his heels, and as he passes the parlour the cellar door looms, open wide black groaning like old wood in a storm, and it’s like he’s running through treacle sweet like mould, thick like mucus. His father’s hand is big enough to enclose his arm completely, and it hurts, it hurts, and he screams as he’s dragged into the parlour, towards the yawning emptiness of the cellar, and thrown in._

_The door slams before he can get to it and he pounds on it frantically, a terrified child’s fist barely visible, a shadow illuminated by the crack of light under the door, hands hammering over and over on the wood. His throat is raw, screams bursting from his mouth, his heart going so fast he’s going to lose his breath and drown. Begging to be let out, promising he’ll be good, he’ll do anything, anything –_

Grantaire woke on a choked shout, fear racing through him as he stared around. He was in Carentan, and for a moment he thought he was in his old house. His stomach swooped, a whimper escaping him before memory caught up and reminded him that he was on the other side of the village, and Enjolras was sleeping across the hall. The room was still dark, and he’d sweated through his shirt, the sheets a twisted rope at the bottom of the bed.

He shivered as he pulled his shirt off and got up, taking his blanket and his spare shirt from his pack before creeping through to the kitchen, where a basin of cold water lay on the counter for Grantaire to wash his face with. After a few minutes of hesitation, Grantaire moved through to the living room and curled up on the couch. Sleep came in fits and bursts, and Grantaire was half-awake when grey light trickled through the windows, and Enjolras emerged from his bedroom.

“Oh.” He stared in surprise as Grantaire struggled into a sitting position. “Good morning. Couldn’t you sleep?”

Grantaire shrugged, pulling on an awkward smile. “Not used to beds yet, I suppose.”

“If there’s anything I can do…”

“No, don’t worry about it.” Grantaire waved a hand and got to his feet. “Short of providing me with a barn loft, there’s nothing you can give, and I’d be a poor guest indeed to demand such a ridiculous thing when I’ve been furnished with so much better already.”

“Well, the rich are entitled to their eccentricities, aren’t they?” Enjolras jerked his head towards the corridor. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“I don’t want to trouble you –”

“You’re my guest. We’re proud of our hospitality in these parts, Monsi – Grantaire. I wouldn’t want to disgrace Carentan’s good reputation.”

Grantaire snorted, but stepped forward to follow him. Enjolras made no comment, though he clearly wasn’t pleased with Grantaire’s reaction. They had porridge for breakfast, thick and sweetened with honey. Grantaire could have eaten a whole pot, but restrained himself to compliments instead of begging for more. “You make this with milk?”

“We have plenty of cows and goats, and Sister Simplice keeps bees at the edge of the forest. This year’s been particularly good for her – there was so much she could sell in both Carentan and Marçan.”

“Lucky her.”

“Do you remember her?” Enjolras asked, getting up to take their bowls to the sink. Grantaire hastened to his feet as well.

“Let me, please. It’s far too much to ask you to clean up after me as well.”

“If you insist.”

“Thank you.” Grantaire took his place at the sink and poured in a little of the hot water from the kettle, mixing it with the cold from a separate jug. Washing up had the added advantage of keeping him faced away from Enjolras, who was, if possible, even more attractive than yesterday. “Did she teach?” he asked, trying to remember anyone called Simplice. “Or was she on the council? I recognise her name, I think, but I can’t picture her.”

“She taught a little, but only if other teachers couldn’t.”

Grantaire shrugged. “If I ever met her, I can’t recall, sorry. But I’m glad you at least believe I used to live here,” he added, grinning over his shoulder. Enjolras, leaning against the table, looked far too serious for so early in the morning.

“The ‘R’ under your old bed was very convincing. I can’t think of any way you could have planted that in advance to convince me.”

“And the whole thing would be a very strange trick to play,” Grantaire said. “Since you know I can afford to give the Larocques everything I’ve promised. How did they take the news, by the way?” he asked hesitantly.

“Poorly.” Enjolras did not sound pleased. “Madame Larocque was more than prepared to give you a piece of her mind.”

“And a piece of her fist, I don’t doubt,” Grantaire sighed. “What about the children? Did you see them?”

“I did not. Their parents will have told them by now, I expect. That said, I wouldn’t be surprised if they pay you a visit to try and persuade you to let them buy the deeds. It’s not an easy task, moving from one house to another.”

“They’ll be compensated.” Grantaire put the clean bowls and spoons on the side, finding a rag to dry them with. “I won’t be persuaded – they’d be wasting their time.”

“I told them as much. Well.” Enjolras pushed off from the table. “I have work to do. What do you intend to do with your day?”

“Find my friends, perhaps see if there are any jobs that need doing.”

“Feuilly always knows if anyone needs something.” Enjolras smiled. “If you tell him you’re looking for work, I’m sure he’d be able to find it for you.”

“I’ll do that, thanks. What do you do all day?” he asked curiously, grabbing his fiddle case and jacket from the side before following Enjolras outside. It was a cold morning, some mist hanging over the trees and fields. He hadn’t been able to appreciate the view last night, and he paused and whistled, impressed.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Enjolras sounded as pleased as though he’d rolled the scene out purely for Grantaire’s benefit. “I love it when the leaves are still green and the rains haven’t come yet.”

“Rivers of mud, I remember.” Grantaire snorted and let Enjolras lead the way down the wooden steps.

“In answer to your question, today I’m going to see Combeferre off to have your silver valued, but normally I keep the records. Officially, I’m Carentan’s lawyer, but I’m more of an accountant. Cosette and I make sure everything that needs doing is done, and that all the numbers match up. We’re responsible for making sure that produce is divided correctly and stored in the right amounts.”

“Both of you?”

“We take turns, after a fashion. We both work at other things – everyone helps bring in the harvest, for example, and Cosette goes on hunting parties and border checks, so while she’s away the work falls to me.”

“Do you ever do anything else?”

“Anything that needs doing, really. I’m the same as most my age without a full-time trade – I do anything I’m hired to do, though I tend to specialise in the communal maintenance.”

Communal maintenance? “What do you mean?” Grantaire asked.

“Well, not all of the land or houses are owned by families. Some are communal property, like the orchards or the village pastures, or this house.” He waved behind him.

“I thought Monsieur Roussel owned it?”

“No, he owned a house closer to the east woods, but he sold it to Irma’s older sister when she married Bernard Fontaine, and he moved in here.”

“So…the village owns it?” Grantaire frowned. “How does that work?”

“Quite easily.” Enjolras pushed his hat lower on his head as a breeze became a gust, trying to whisk it away. “We work to pay for our food and whatever’s inside the house that belongs to us, but we pay no rent, and we take care of the house together. In practice, that means Lucien and I take care of anything that needs fixing. Monsieur Roussel’s far too old to be going up ladders or scrubbing floors now.”

“And no one…I don’t know, takes advantage of that?”

“How would they?”

“I don’t know.” Anyone who stepped too far out of line would be met with disapproval from the rest of the village, Grantaire imagined. In a place so small, being socially ostracised was worse than poverty. He remembered that all too well. “I don’t remember anything being communal when I lived here,” he offered.

Enjolras gave him a satisfied sort of look. “There’s been more and more of it in the last few years. People were wary at first, but it’s been a huge success. It’s more…community-minded than having everything privately owned.”

“More civilised?”

“In a sense. Though I don’t think civilisation is something that can be measured in possessions or modernities. Civilisation is a state of mind.”

If that was the case, Enjolras was probably one of the most civilised people Grantaire had ever met. They parted at the village green, Grantaire going into Feuilly’s tavern and Enjolras heading on to his office in the town hall.

 

Grantaire and the others were old hands at whiling away time, and spent the next few days alternating between the tavern and the rest of the village, hiring themselves out where they could and then spending their gains on drink and food.

He was only cornered by Monsieur Larocque once, and he honestly wished he’d been found by Madame Larocque instead, because shouting would have been easier to deal with then quiet pleas. They’d saved for so long to clean the Martineau house up, Monsieur Larocque said earnestly. Couldn’t Grantaire find it in his heart to accept payment for the deed instead of turning them out of their home?

Grantaire felt ill the rest of that night, hollowed out by the mingled resentment and desperation in the man’s eyes. He didn’t understand it – they weren’t going to pay for any of it themselves, after all. Enjolras explained it to him the next day, when he’d heard what had happened. Families like the Larocques put a lot of store in a home of their own, and didn’t take kindly to being forced out, even if it was in better circumstances than they might have expected.

Joly was a model host, Bossuet and Musichetta told Grantaire and Marius. Kind, generous, and apparently very funny. Grantaire tried to appear enthusiastic when they said he wanted them all to come over for supper at some point. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were likewise wonderful, according to Marius, and the news that they were a couple was a relief. If they hadn’t been driven out of town, Grantaire was unlikely to wind up in too much trouble if he happened to get drunk and act the fool.

The danger of that was decreasing, however, the more time he spent in Enjolras’ company. It was easy to drink up and flirt with a stranger, but Enjolras was no longer that. He’d flirted that first night, but now Grantaire fell into shyness, not sure how to interpret Enjolras’ eyes on him or his continued kindness and hospitality. Either they would fall into a rhythm like he had with Bossuet (they’d slept together when they first met, but never since, and now Grantaire couldn’t even imagine it), or he would endure in silence, privately panicking as he got to know him and found that it only made him want Enjolras more, not less.

When Combeferre returned, he and Enjolras met Grantaire in the town hall to tell him what he already knew – that his silver would buy the building of five good houses at the very least, and those with all the modern luxuries Carentan could offer.

Cosette appeared in the tavern later that day as if summoned (or perhaps notified by her brother) to offer Grantaire her organisational services. “You don’t know who to ask to do the jobs,” she explained gently. “You’ve been gone for such a long time…”

“Say no more.” Grantaire lifted his hands. “I’m a trusting fellow – I put myself entirely at your disposal.”

And so he found himself giving silver to Cosette in order to pay about thirty locals to go into the forest to begin the first stage of the building process – felling trees for lumber. He offered to come and help, and wound up on the receiving end of the gentlest let-down speech he’d ever heard. The realisation that it hadn’t been his idea to stay behind didn’t even penetrate his brain until a few minutes after Cosette had left.

“Art in motion,” Musichetta said, grinning at his befuddled look. “I like her.”

“We should write a song about her,” Marius said at once, comically eager. At their amused looks, his cheeks slowly flushed red. “What? We’ve written songs about people before.”

“Not usually good ones.” Bossuet rubbed a hand over his head and smiled. “Jack-O-Lin springs to mind.” Musichetta snorted, and Grantaire bit back a smile.

“What about Lily White?” Marius protested. “That’s a nice song.”

“Yeah, but Lily White dies, doesn’t she? Hardly upbeat.”

“Why don’t you write the song, Marius?” Musichetta shrugged, tilting her chair back on two legs. “Everyone loves being wooed with music.”

“You did,” Bossuet smirked, and Grantaire put his head in his hands so he didn’t have to see Musichetta return it.

“Did I? As I remember, I was the one wooing you.”

“Your memory’s famously faulty.”

“Not faulty enough to forget your many faults.”

“Faults? I?”

“Your eyes are indeed faulty,” Musichetta agreed, her voice brimming with laughter. “This one has green in it. An untrustworthy colour, one might say.”

“Take your flirting elsewhere,” Grantaire interrupted before Bossuet could respond, lifting his head to roll his eyes. “You’re making me retch.”

This was their cue to turn their attention to him instead, and he pretended to grumble and gripe as they both draped themselves all over him and cooed like teenagers.

 

“Four months,” Cosette predicted three days later, her face shining with sweat. She couldn’t have looked more different to the delicate, refined woman Grantaire had first encountered on the steps of the town hall. Now, her hair bound back under a scarf and her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, he would have mistaken her at a distance for a young man. Her boots were so filthy, she’d called Grantaire out of the tavern rather than going inside and dirtying Feuilly’s floor.

“Four months?” he repeated, trying not to let his dismay show.

“At the very least.” She gave him a clear-eyed look, seeing straight through him. “More likely five, accounting for weather and other delays.”

“Right.” He gave up on pretence, his shoulders slumping. “Well. I suppose I’d better get comfortable. Is there anything I can do?”

“You can definitely help dig the foundations,” Cosette smiled. “Lots of people will pitch in for that, since the weather’s fine and you’re footing the bill. After that,” she shrugged, “we’ll see. You can try your hand at everything, of course, but if you’re a poor joiner, you shouldn’t be taking that job from someone who can do it twice as fast and twice as well.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire sighed. “Well, I’ll try everything, like you say. Thank you, mam’selle.”

“Cosette, please. You’re living with my brother, after all – we can’t have formalities. And speaking of Enjolras, has he invited you all to lunch tomorrow?”

She may as well have kicked his legs out from under him. Grantaire’s tongue stumbled in poor recovery. “Lynch? _Lunch_ , sorry, Lunch?”

Ever graceful, Cosette smiled. “Yes, this Sunday. He was probably going to ask tonight, he always does these things last minute. But this means the pleasure of inviting you is mine! So, will you come?”

“All of us?” Grantaire glanced behind him at the tavern door, as though he’d see the rest of the band hanging out of the windows, eavesdropping.

“Of course. My father saw you play, of course, that first night, but he and my mother would love to meet you properly. Please say you’ll come – we so rarely get visitors here.” Her smile was too bright to be calculating, and Grantaire bit back his first response – that it was no wonder somewhere as bleak as Carentan got no visitors – to attempt a smile in return.

“We’re poor guests, mam’selle – Cosette, sorry. Last time we ate at a table before coming here was weeks ago, and that at an inn I’m pretty sure was secretly a whorehouse.” He realised what he’d said half a second after he said it, and his face flooded with colour even as Cosette bit back a grin. “Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve said that, it wasn’t…”

“Proper? No, it wasn’t really.” She looked positively impish in the face of his discomfort. “Of course, this means you absolutely can’t refuse me. We’re eating at one, you can come along with Enjolras or ask for directions, but whatever you do make sure you come hungry. Papa always makes far too much food for us.” She patted his arm. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodbye!”

Grantaire watched her walk off down the street until she turned left out of sight. A further minute of silent contemplation produced no brilliant excuses he and the others could use to get out of the meal, and he might have stayed outside until night fell if the door hadn’t opened behind him. Turning to see who it was, Grantaire had the perfect view of Marius’ expression changing from nervous hope to dejection.

“She just left,” he said, and watched with interest as colour bloomed in Marius’ cheeks, swiftly spreading down his neck.

“Who? I wasn’t looking for a she, I was looking for a he, I mean, for you.”

“Sure.” Grantaire rolled his eyes and went back up the porch steps, clapping Marius on the shoulder as he passed him. Inside, Musichetta and Bossuet weren’t talking, the cards untouched on the table as they avoided looking at each other with practised movements. Their stony gazes sparked unexpected inspiration in Grantaire as he sat.

“What news?” Musichetta asked first.

“I reckon you should go on that tour.” Grantaire stole Marius’ mug and took a gulp of cider. “Cosette says it’ll take months – maybe five if we’re unlucky.”

Musichetta hissed, sitting back in her chair with a displeased curl to her lips. “That’s too long.”

“Hence the tour, like I said.” He looked at Bossuet. “Well, like you said. You don’t want to hang around in this place for the whole season. Might as well strike out early, while the weather’s good.”

He knew as soon as he said it (wasn’t that always the way) that he’d been too keen. Bossuet narrowed his eyes and plonked an elbow on the table to point a finger at him. “What’s the game, capital R? We don’t have to move out straight away, there’s no fire under our asses. What’s the hurry?”

“No hurry –”

“One last show and then the road,” Musichetta cut in, smiling now. “Sooner’s always better than later. Come on, Bossuet.”

“Come on yourself, look at his face!” Bossuet grinned at Grantaire, whose treacherous cheeks began to turn red under the scrutiny. “He’s got a hidden agenda. What’s happening so soon that you want us all out of town?”

“Nothing!”

“Tell you what.” Bossuet picked up the deck of cards and started shuffling. “Let’s play for it. I win, you get to keep your secret. I lose –”

“That’s hardly fair!” Grantaire protested. “I can count the number of times you’ve won a card game on one hand!” It was an exaggeration, but not a large one.

“So you are hiding something.” Musichetta laughed at him. “Out with it, Aire. We’re definitely staying now, at least till you tell us what’s up.”

Defeated, Grantaire slumped in his chair. “I was trying to spare you, you know,” he grumbled. Musichetta leaned over and patted his arm.

“Of course you were. What’s the news then?”

Grantaire sighed. “We’ve been invited to lunch tomorrow, at the mayor’s house.”

“You weren’t even going to give us the option of getting free food?” Bossuet squawked. “What kind of sparing is that?”

“It’s the mayor,” Grantaire pleaded, lowering his voice – Feuilly was bound to respect Valjean as much as his son, after all. “You don’t think it’d be awkward?”

“Will Cosette be there?” Marius asked, and glared at them when they all turned to grin at him, even Grantaire. “What? It’s just a question.”

“Well we have to go now,” Musichetta said wickedly. “I want to see Pontmercy in action. Have you ever wooed a girl before, Marius?”

“You know perfectly well he hasn’t.” Bossuet clapped Marius’ shoulder. “Don’t worry, Marius. Just be yourself. Don’t try too hard.”

“But don’t _not_ try,” Musichetta cut in.

“Sure, but –”

“Stop, stop.” Grantaire waved his hands to halt what he could tell was building up to be an argument. “Maybe romantic advice from you two isn’t the best course of action?”

“What’re you saying?” Musichetta gasped, her hand flying to Bossuet’s shoulder. “We’re a model couple!”

“Mm, I’ll remind you of that next time you fight, shall I?” Grantaire yawned. “I want to play. Any of you up for it?”

“We should practice,” Bossuet agreed. “To the barn?”

“The barn,” Grantaire agreed. They bade farewell to Feuilly on their way out and headed over to a barn on the edge of the village, owned by a family called Saunier. One of them had put a note in Bossuet’s mandolin case on their first night, offering their half-empty barn as a place they could sleep. Bossuet had found and spoken to the Saunier grandmother and she’d agreed they could use it to practice instead. It was the perfect place, right on the southern tip of the village away from anyone who might be annoyed by the noise.

They played through a few of their regular songs, and then Bossuet started improvising, trying to find a melody for the song he’d thought of on the way, inspired by Grantaire’s hidden treasure. They played till the light went, and Grantaire struggled to hold onto the good mood the music had put him in as they walked back through the village, the darkness making him think of his father’s house.

They ate at Feuilly’s and retired to their separate lodgings, Grantaire hurrying once he was alone, sure he could feel the house’s malevolence in the corner of his mind. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw that the lights in Enjolras’ apartment were on, and took the stairs two at a time.

“You don’t have to knock,” Enjolras told him as he opened the door, having apparently heard Grantaire approach and catching him with his hand raised. “You’re living here.”

“It’s your place, not mine.” Grantaire slipped past him, wincing when he saw the half-empty plate of food on the table. “I interrupted, sorry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Sit down, there’s enough for both of us.”

“I…” Grantaire gestured helplessly behind him. “I already, at Feuilly’s…”

“Oh.” Enjolras shrugged and sat down again. “Well, never mind then. You don’t have to eat there every night though, if you don’t want to.”

There was a trap in the words, Grantaire could sense it though he couldn’t feel out the exact boundaries of it. “I don’t want to impose,” he said cautiously, falling back on manners. Typically, it just made Enjolras roll his eyes.

“I invited you to stay here; food is included in that.”

“Still.” Grantaire shifted in place, not sure what to do with himself. Maybe it would be better to eat here, just to avoid this awkwardness.

“Speaking of food – please sit?”

Gingerly, Grantaire lowered himself into the chair opposite Enjolras.

“My parents have invited you to lunch tomorrow.” Enjolras gave him a smile that was almost apologetic. “I promise they’re not just trying to be nosy. They just want to welcome you, since you’ll be staying for a bit.”

“Me specifically?”

“Oh, no – all of you. But I think, especially you, since you used to live here.”

Grantaire sighed. “Your sister already asked. It seems we have no choice.”

“So you’ll come?”

“I suppose, yes.”

“Good. Did Cosette talk to you about the house building?”

“Yeah. It, um. Seems I might be imposing on you for a bit longer than I thought.” Grantaire looked down at the table, and jumped when Enjolras nudged his foot.

“It’s not a problem, Grantaire. I have room and food for an extra body. Carentan’s had a good few years – we can support a band of musicians.”

“Thank you.” Grantaire got to his feet as quietly as he could. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Of course.” Enjolras sounded puzzled, but Grantaire didn’t look at him as he hurried past and went into his little bedroom. He was hoping that turning in early would grant him a full night’s rest. His nightmares hadn’t ceased, but while he’d usually be able to go back to sleep after waking, there were two crucial differences now.

First, he wasn’t sleeping with anyone else. He never slept alone if he could help it – even on the nights when they got enough money for private bedrooms, Grantaire would try to find someone to spend the night with him. He hadn’t quite realised that it was a choice he’d made until now, but sleeping alone had always been a rare occurrence before.

Second, when he woke, he woke in Carentan. His nightmares used to fade quickly with the knowledge that he was far away from the village and the house, and the relief of remembering his father’s death. But while his father was still dead, the house still stood, and he was so close here he could practically smell it.

An early night was not forthcoming. He tossed and turned, unable to stop wondering about what he would dream about tonight. Would it be the cellar, or his father? Would it be both?

When he did eventually drift off, he dreamed of his father. When he woke, trembling in the dark, he was slick with sweat, and he had to press shaking hands to the backs of his thighs to remind himself that no one had touched him, no one had hurt him. He was safe. His father was dead.

Like a pendulum, his mind swung to the house, and he pressed his face into the damp pillow to stop himself making a sound. It was waiting for him, waiting for the next time he got too close, and when he stepped into its shadow it would draw him in, in, in. Up the porch steps, in through the front door, all the way to the parlour where the open cellar door would _gape_.

He curled into a ball and shivered, wishing for the sun to rise.

 

Lunch at the mayor’s house was a strange affair. Grantaire had expected formality, but when he and Enjolras arrived, the rest of the band in tow, they were ushered inside by a beautiful woman who introduced herself as Fantine and looked far too young to be Enjolras and Cosette’s mother. She grasped each of their hands in turn and kissed their cheeks, complimenting Marius’ posture and Musichetta’s hair.

“I hope you’ll play at Feuilly’s again soon,” she told them, smiling. “I missed you, that first night. Jean’s just laying the table, please come in.”

They followed her to a large dining room, the table large enough to seat all of them with room for more. The mayor himself was putting cutlery down, and he stopped his work as soon as they entered, coming to shake their hands as his wife had. “I’m so glad you came.” He hugged Enjolras, a sight Grantaire found himself unable to look away from, and gestured for them all to sit.

“Papa!” Cosette called from the kitchen. “It’s ready!”

“I’ll get it,” Enjolras said before his parents could move, going through the open door. Valjean shrugged and sat at the head of the table, Fantine sitting at the other end. Grantaire wound up next to Marius, Bossuet and Musichetta sitting opposite them.

Lunch was brought in a second later, Enjolras frowning with concentration as he lifted a huge pot, his hands protected with rags. Cosette followed behind him, balancing three large dishes of vegetables, and as soon as Enjolras put the pot down he went back to the kitchen and returned with a stack of plates which he shared out. The contents of the pot were revealed to be a hare stew, the animal caught by Cosette and cooked by the mayor. She sat between Grantaire and Marius, and Enjolras sat opposite, between Musichetta and his mother. The table was just narrow enough that Grantaire couldn’t be sure whether Enjolras was touching their feet together underneath it on purpose or not.

“I hope you don’t mind that I say grace before we begin,” Valjean smiled, already lacing his hands together. Grantaire kept his under the table, relieved when Enjolras did the same. Bossuet and Marius bowed their heads, as did Cosette, but Musichetta and Fantine kept their chins up.

“Blessed are we to receive your bounty, lord,” Valjean said softly. “We give thanks for the time that has been given. Amen.”

“Help yourselves,” Fantine said immediately, gesturing to the food. Cosette got there first, and Enjolras went straight for the carrots, so Bossuet took the initiative and reached for the potatoes. After that, it was a free-for-all, though Grantaire was careful not to take more than anyone else. Bossuet, always chattiest, entertained Valjean and Fantine with the tale of their journey, and Marius gradually lost the redness in his cheeks as Cosette persisted in talking to him, leaving Grantaire on her other side thoroughly ignored. It was hard to mind when Marius looked so pleased though, and it meant he could exchange amused looks with Musichetta.

The conversation shifted as they ate, from eating on the road to their instruments to the progress on the Larocques’ new house. They talked about foraging in the woods, last year’s harvest, and the birth of a healthy baby girl to a young couple nearby. Grantaire waited for them to ask about him and his bizarre demands concerning his old house, but they never did. Even into dessert (some sort of rhubarb pie-crumble), no one tried to get Grantaire to talk about anything but his life on the road and his fiddle.

By contrast, he ended up finding out a lot about Enjolras and Cosette. Enjolras had chosen to move out after spending two years in Marçan studying, while Cosette had gone for only a month before returning home. “I couldn’t live away from the woods,” she explained. “I felt trapped – there were no trees there, and everybody owned everything. It was stifling.”

“It was freeing.” Enjolras smiled at her, the disagreement clearly an old, gentle one.

“Takes all types to make a world,” Fantine recited, taking a second helping of dessert.

Enjolras had lodged with Combeferre, and they’d met Courfeyrac there, all three of them returning together when their time was up. Combeferre was a herbalist, and something of an assistant to Joly, who’d been injured as a teen and could no longer do everything himself. Courfeyrac was a farmhand for another family.

Enjolras positively glowed when talking about them, and if the way Cosette teased him was any indication, it was something he did often. Grantaire noticed he wasn’t the only one struck by their easy mockery of each other – Bossuet watched with something like loss, and the two of them exchanged a slightly embarrassed look when their eyes met. Bossuet had had a brother, Grantaire knew, a lifetime ago. The brother had died, as so many children did, and Bossuet had been alone after that. His parents had kicked them both out when he was twelve and the brother thirteen, their mouths too much a burden on their parents’ stretched resources with five other children to feed and a father who worked too little.

Musichetta had been raised in a brothel, her mother dead of disease by the time she was ten. She’d left before the madam could put her to work, figuring it might not be safer to trade her body on her own terms, but at least she’d keep all her earnings. Marius had been raised rich and miserable, running away when he discovered that his father hadn’t abandoned him as he’d thought. None of them had happy backgrounds.

It was like being on stage in a play, watching this family together. They all cared for each other so obviously, so unashamedly. Grantaire felt almost like he was spying on them.

They left several hours after arriving, Enjolras staying behind to help clear up. They walked in silence until they reached the main street, and then Musichetta let out a tremendous sigh. “Wow.”

“Yeah.” Bossuet agreed. “I need a drink.”

“Feuilly’s not open on Sunday,” Marius reminded them, to a chorus of groans.

“Is there anyone here who’d have a bottle of wine?” Grantaire wasn’t proud of how desperate he sounded, but there it was. “Absinthe? Gin? I’d take cider at this point.”

“Joly has wine.” Musichetta looked at Bossuet, the two of them engaging in a swift and silent conversation involving only their facial expressions. After a second, she nodded and looked back at Grantaire. “Joly has wine.”

That he hesitated at all made them all stop and stare. “Don’t you like him?” Bossuet asked, sounding hurt.

“I don’t know, I’ve barely seen him.” Grantaire huffed and dragged a hand through his hair. “Ahh…does his father live there with him?”

“Yes,” Musichetta said, at the same time as Bossuet asked, “Why?”

Grantaire grimaced. “I didn’t like him when I was a kid, it’s nothing serious. I just didn’t want to bump into him.” He’d hoped he’d died, in all honesty, and hadn’t inquired after him in order to prolong his hopes.

“Well.” Bossuet frowned at him. “His father goes to eat with Combeferre’s family on Sundays, so Joly has the house to himself. You won’t be rude about his father, will you?”

“Course not. I won’t say a word.”

“To Joly’s then?” Musichetta smiled, already striding ahead. It wasn’t far, and Grantaire held his tongue the whole way there almost just to prove that he could.

He had no memories at all of the doctor’s son, but whatever Joly had been like as a child, as an adult he was tall and brown-haired, with a wide, infectious smile. He greeted them even more enthusiastically than Fantine had, hugging Musichetta and Bossuet as though he hadn’t seen them in weeks. It was impossible not to grin at the sight, and Grantaire found his cheeks being kissed a moment later, his hand squeezed tightly between both of Joly’s. “It’s so good to meet you both properly!” he beamed, turning to Marius and giving him the same treatment. “Come in! Do you want a drink?”

“You’re an impeccable host, Joly,” Bossuet told him, grinning as Joly squeezed past him to lead the way into a small parlour. The house was small, but cosy and well decorated. Marius, Bossuet, and Grantaire squeezed onto a sagging couch, leaving the armchairs for Joly and Musichetta, who had gone through to the kitchen to get drinks for them all.

“I’m glad you’ve come back,” Joly called through. “There’s a huge spider in my bedroom, and I daren’t enter while it’s made camp.”

“What did you do before we came along?” Bossuet asked, laughing.

“Ceded territory, of course. I hardly have two functioning legs – I can’t defend myself against a creature with eight! Why do you think the spare bedroom upstairs is a spare?”

“Because one man doesn’t need two bedrooms?” Musichetta suggested.

“I’ll have you know all respectable gentlemen have at least four bedrooms,” Joly told her. “One for each season.”

“Ah, of course. You’ll have to forgive us, our formal education in such things is lacking.”

“It was a lackadaisical education,” Bossuet grinned.

“You’re both lackeys in the outlaw way of life, I know,” Joly came back in with a bottle of wine and two glasses, followed by Musichetta who carried the remaining three.

“Alas, alack, he’s found us out,” she sighed.

“A lacklustre effort,” Bossuet snorted.

“Do you find her attempt lacking?” Joly grinned, then cursed when Bossuet and Musichetta both cried out in delight and pointed at him. “Damn!”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows at Marius. They were both well used to Bossuet and Chetta’s incurable love of wordplay, but they’d never seen anyone else take to it with such obvious pleasure.

Joly passed a glass to each of them, filling them generously with red wine, then sat down and laughed as he could only fill his own glass halfway. “I underestimated!”

“I’ll get another bottle,” Bossuet reassured him, passing his glass to Grantaire as he got up to go to the kitchen.

“How was your lunch?” Joly asked, propping one of his legs up on a footstool. “The mayor’s a wonderful cook, isn’t he? He brings mashed potatoes to the communal meals every time, and they’re always gone in seconds.”

“No mash for us,” Musichetta grinned. “The potatoes were roasted, as were the carrots. I think the cabbage was boiled? No idea, I’m no good with greens. The hare was definitely stewed, and it was delicious.”

“A wonderful cook,” Joly nodded, satisfied. “I told you. It’s the one thing Enjolras misses about living there, he says, though of course he could go over for supper every night if he wished.”

If Grantaire had to describe Joly in one word, it would be happy. Even when he was describing illnesses and injuries and all the potential things in the world that could go wrong, he was cheerful. He was like Bossuet in that way – avoiding calamity was impossible, so it might as well be laughed at. As the afternoon turned into evening and Joly’s wine flowed, Grantaire warmed to him more and more, finding it was easier if he kept his back to the kitchen, which was the only room in the house he’d been in before.

They played more word games, which Grantaire was certain Joly flubbed on purpose a few times so that Marius wouldn’t be the only loser, and Joly told them about being a student in Renoir, which was a city five or six times the size of Marçan a lot further away. It was the best place in the east for medical training, apparently, with a proper college for students who could pay. Joly and his family had saved since his birth to send him there.

“I almost didn’t make it!” Joly shook his head, leaning towards Marius and Grantaire. “My knee, you must have noticed.” He gestured at it and sighed. “A cart fell on me when I was sixteen. If Valjean hadn’t been there my father might have had to cut my leg off, but –”

“He lifted it off you,” Grantaire remembered, shocked. “I didn’t realise that was you.”

“Well at least the story reached you, if not the details,” Joly laughed. “I had to delay going to Renoir for a whole year while I recovered, and I still can’t walk on it very well. Still, it does the job, and if it gets too bad when I get old, I’ll get it chopped off and have a nice wooden one instead.”

“Very practical of you,” Grantaire remarked, lifting his glass in a toast. “You’ve no sentimental attachment?”

“Oh a little, certainly, but after all, I do have a copy.” Joly jiggled his other leg, grinning. “So if I ever wonder what it looked like, I can sit with a mirror between my legs and remind myself. And just think of all the marvellous things I could do with a wooden leg!”

“Lots of storage options,” Bossuet agreed.

“Decoration too.” Musichetta made a show of examining Joly’s propped-up leg. “I think some leaves would look good – holly to your jolly.”

“It could be carved into the shape of a dolly,” Bossuet said immediately.

“That would be folly.” Marius went pink at their collective cheers for his rare speed.

Grantaire smirked and lifted his glass again. “All this rhyming is making me melancholy.”

“Being melancholic is your usual volley,” Bossuet teased.

When Grantaire and Marius finally left, it was dark, and they walked with their arms around each other to hold each other steady. Joly had been very generous with his wine – Grantaire worried that they might have cleared him out – and after dropping Marius off at Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s, Grantaire sang out loud to himself to keep his mind off the prickling feeling at the back of his mind which was now, he’d accepted, an unavoidable side-effect of being in Carentan without company to occupy him.

He had to climb the stairs to Enjolras’ apartment on his hands and knees, which was how he knew he was really drunk. That was confirmed even further when he stumbled inside and broke into a huge smile when Enjolras came out of the parlour. “Enjolras! I’m so glad you’re here.”

“You…well, where else would I be?”

“At your parents’, perhaps.” Grantaire grabbed for the back of a chair to lean on, missed, and almost fell flat on his face, only catching himself at the last second on the edge of the table. Enjolras had jerked forward to help him and stepped back again as he straightened, a frown on his face.

“Where have you been? Feuilly doesn’t usually open on Sundays.”

“Joly is a very generous man.” Grantaire grinned when Enjolras’ expression lightened. “See, I knew you wouldn’t mind that. He says you’re friends, and you adore your friends, Cosette said so and you say so too, all the time.” He swayed, and Enjolras rolled his eyes.

“You’re hardly the first person to tell me that. Come through and sit down, I’ll get you some water.”

“No wine?”

“Certainly not. You can barely stand.”

“Can too.” Grantaire rallied his faculties and let go of the table, standing perfectly still and gazing into Enjolras’ face. “See?” he said after a moment, watching Enjolras’ throat move as he swallowed. “Besides, wine tastes better.”

Enjolras looked away quickly. “The last thing you need is more wine. Go and sit down.”

“Do you have any cards?” Grantaire asked, leaning on the table again as Enjolras went to get him a cup of water.

“I do, yes. You want to play something?”

“If you’re not busy. You’ll definitely win, so why say no?”

Enjolras’ look was difficult to interpret – it might have been amusement or exasperation or annoyance, and Grantaire waved a hand in embarrassment. “I’m making a nuisance of myself, I’m sorry, sorry, I’ll leave you. I shouldn’t impose –”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Come and sit.” Enjolras’ hand on his shoulder was warm even through his jacket, and Grantaire couldn’t help yielding to the pressure and letting Enjolras lead him through to the couch. They both sat, and Enjolras passed him the water, which Grantaire held but didn’t drink. The room seemed to be spinning slightly, and he didn’t want to dilute the pleasant effect.

“Sorry,” he said, nonsensically.

“Whatever for? You said you were glad to see me when you came in.” Enjolras turned on the couch to face him, and their knees touched.

“I am! I was, I mean.” Grantaire laughed, hyperaware of where Enjolras’ knee was pressed gently to his. “I’m far better in company than out of it. Chetta told me once I should get a dog, which I quite like the idea of, though we go hungry sometimes and I wouldn’t want to starve an animal, even by accident.”

“You farmed when you lived here, didn’t you? Didn’t you have a dog then?”

Grantaire blinked, then shook his head. “We had two goats, no more. My father was a woodsman, not a farmer. None of you asked about him,” he added, his realisation from earlier returning now. “Or me, about when I lived here. Your parents, I thought they’d ask.”

“They understand that a person’s past is their own.” A reference to his mother’s chequered history? Grantaire wasn’t drunk enough to have lost all tact, so didn’t follow it up.

“You ask though.”

Enjolras nodded, caught out. “I’m too curious for my own good. I always want to know the why of things.”

“Like why I hate that house?” Grantaire smiled, humourless. “And why I want to burn it down? Since you don’t believe there’s something wrong with the cellar, you must think it’s all because of my father.”

Enjolras shifted, and he had to be pressing their knees together on purpose, there was no way he hadn’t noticed. “You don’t have to answer. If you don’t want to talk about it, I can stop asking.”

“It’s fine, I’ve told people before. The band, plenty of others.” It had actually been something of an obsession when he was younger, asking people he befriended in taverns and wine shops whether their fathers had been cruel to them. “To get proof,” he tried to explain, dimly aware that he wasn’t making as much sense to Enjolras as he was to himself. “I mean, most people’s father’s don’t…Bossuet’s father would hit them, him and his brothers and sisters, but not like mine hit me.”

“Your father hit you?” Enjolras sounded so appalled that Grantaire laughed.

“Didn’t yours? Most people get at least a couple of smacks when they were kids.” In the silence that followed, Grantaire’s smile fell away. “Well. Lucky you, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Grantaire’s lips twitched, echoing Enjolras’ earlier retort to his own apology. “He’s dead. It’s over. I’ve been meaning to go spit on his grave,” he remembered. “It keeps slipping my mind.”

“Was he really that bad?” Enjolras frowned.

Yes. Grantaire knew it was the answer, the truth, but even now he couldn’t say it plain. “If I’d ever tried to leave, he would’ve killed me,” he settled for.

It took Enjolras a moment to absorb that. “You’re serious.”

“As the plague. He came close a few times.” Always the neck, on those rare occasions when Grantaire really enraged him. He reckoned that was why he couldn’t hold a tune – he’d been strangled too often. “That table.” He shook his head, staring at Enjolras’ knee against his and focusing on the spinning edges of the room. From anyone else, he’d interpret such behaviour as flirting, but from Enjolras, the signals were far more muddled. “That table, why would they keep it?”

“You mean the Larocques?”

“Mm. I hate that table. I’ll build them a new one, I want that old one gone. He used to pin me to it,” he explained, suddenly needing to rationalise this eccentricity. “Face-down, bent over the edge, and he’d beat me like that. Spare the rod, spoil the child.” He recited it slowly, the room whirling. “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” Thénardier had agreed, though he’d at least been kind to his daughters while times were good. It was only when he began losing money and custom that he turned on his children, and Grantaire had watched in something like satisfaction (a fact he was ashamed of now) as the spoiled girls were slapped and scolded and put to work. They’d left Carentan when he was about sixteen.

Enjolras touched his thigh, the contact startling enough to make Grantaire stare at him. “You should go to bed,” Enjolras said quietly.

With you? Grantaire almost asked. He shook his head to clear the nonsense from it. “Sorry.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong. I just don’t think you’d tell me these things if you were sober.”

“Try me.”

“If you want me to, I will. But in the morning.”

“Aren’t you noble?” Grantaire grinned. “Well, if my host wishes me unconscious, who am I to refuse?” _Take me to bed_ , he didn’t say. Didn’t dare say.

Enjolras rolled his eyes and stood up, offering Grantaire a hand. He lost most of his cup of water as he staggered to his feet, but Enjolras didn’t mention it. The remaining shreds of his dignity prevented him from clinging to Enjolras as he was guided to the spare bedroom, or asking him to stay once he was sitting on the bed. He assured Enjolras he’d be fine and only bothered with kicking his boots off before lying down and closing his eyes.

The room swayed pleasantly, and he was asleep in minutes.

 

Hangovers were not unfamiliar to Grantaire, and indeed when he woke up (properly, with the sun shining, as opposed to the two times he’d jerked awake in the night from nightmares he couldn’t clearly remember), he felt dried out and tired, but not particularly bad apart from that. He lay still for a few minutes, assessing the strength of his headache and going over everything he’d told Enjolras last night. His alcohol-induced honesty eclipsed the potential importance of Enjolras’ possible flirting, though as he’d said, he’d told people such things before while sober. He just hadn’t ever expected to tell them to a resident of Carentan.

Enjolras was in the parlour, and he came out with a look of surprise when Grantaire appeared. “I thought you’d sleep much later.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice getting started with a heavy head.” Grantaire smiled, wincing. “Excuse me.” He pulled his socks off at the door rather than go back for his boots and went down the steps outside carefully, holding onto the rail so he wouldn’t slip on the wood, wet with dew. The first piss the morning after a drunken night was always a relief.

Enjolras had dished him up a bowl of porridge when he got back to the kitchen, despite the fact that he had obviously eaten a while earlier.

“Thank you?” he said, when it became clear that Enjolras was waiting for him to sit. It seemed unthinkable not to fold under that expectant gaze.

“You’re welcome.” Enjolras put a large cup of water by the bowl and sat opposite him, apparently just to make sure Grantaire ate. It was the sort of thing Bossuet would do, and habit had Grantaire lifting the spoon to his mouth before his mind really caught up.

A couple of mouthfuls in, Grantaire cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I was definitely a pest.” Thank goodness it was easy to talk through porridge. “I’m…Chetta says I’m always too much when I’m drunk. Say too much, go too far, that sort of thing.”

“You said you spoke about it while sober as well.”

“Sure, but not…” Grantaire gestured uselessly at him. “Not with people I’ll see twice. Definitely not here.”

“You mean in Carentan?”

“Yeah.”

Enjolras nodded slowly. Grantaire took the opportunity to shovel porridge into his mouth. He wasn’t usually hungry after a night’s drinking, but it was too good to waste.

“Thank you then.” That was the last thing Grantaire had expected to hear, and he paused to stare at Enjolras, who shrugged. “I told you; I like to know the why of things. The way your father treated you explains a lot.”

“Like what?” Grantaire said, oddly defensive.

“The way you ran as soon as he died and never came back. Why you want to burn his old house down. Why you dislike the village.”

“I hate this village,” Grantaire said automatically, then grimaced at his own words. “Sorry. I know you love it here.”

“I’ve always been happy here.” Enjolras said simply. “Different experiences shape different people, as my mother would say.”

Grantaire nodded, finishing off his porridge and taking it to the sink. “Thank you for breakfast.”

“You’re welcome.” Enjolras stood up as well. “Cosette’s staking out a plot today, if you’re interested.”

“Will the Larocques be there?”

“Probably.”

“I’ll stay away then. I doubt they’ll want to see me.”

“Perhaps not,” Enjolras agreed. “What will you do instead?”

“I don’t know.” Grantaire put the clean bowl and spoon on the side and shrugged, tipping his head back to study the corner of the ceiling. “Walk around, maybe. I’ve not done that since I got back. I never really had the chance when I was a kid.”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras sounded genuinely puzzled, so Grantaire turned to check his expression. Finding it honest, he shrugged again.

“I wasn’t allowed out much. To school, nowhere else. He wouldn’t often take me into the woods with him.”

That appeared to shock Enjolras more than anything Grantaire had told him so far. “You stayed inside the whole time?”

“Most times. I told him I was at school when I wasn’t sometimes, so I could go to Michaud’s.”

“Who?”

“Old Michaud.” Grantaire repeated. “He lived in the cottage just south of the Coutard place. They still live there?”

“Of course, I know where you mean – Sister Simplice lives there now, in the little cottage. Who was Michaud?”

“He taught me to play. The fiddle, I mean.”

Enjolras nodded seriously. “How old were you when he died?”

“Fifteen.” Grantaire couldn’t hold Enjolras’ clear gaze; he looked away and went to pick his socks up from by the door. “I should wash my clothes, actually. Is there…where do you do it?” He’d done the laundry in the stream east of the house when he’d lived here, but he didn’t want to go back so close.

“In the tub, usually.” Enjolras tilted his head towards the metal tub in the corner without looking away from Grantaire. “How do you do it on the road?”

“We find a stream. I’ve never used a tub before. I should find the others, we always do it together.” He shifted in place, wanting to get his boots but wary of going too close to Enjolras for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on.

“I’ll show you the usual place then. I can do mine at the same time, if you don’t mind?”

“No, not at all,” Grantaire muttered, following as Enjolras headed back down the hall, each of them going into their rooms to gather their dirty clothes. “Where’s the usual place?” Grantaire asked, stuffing his things into his pack and shoving the bedsheets in for good measure – he’d sweated into them enough that they could probably do with some soap.

“The Mosailles, the river in the east woods,” Enjolras called back as Grantaire pulled his boots on. “You never washed your clothes there?”

“I went to a place near the house, upriver.” Grantaire came back into the hall at the same time as Enjolras, who’d filled a cloth sack with his things.

“We could go there?” Enjolras suggested, taking the lead once more, turning into the kitchen and heading out, Grantaire at his heels.

“No.” At the curious look Enjolras threw over his shoulder, Grantaire pulled a face. “It’s too close. I don’t want to go near the place till it’s time to burn it.”

“You hate it that much?”

“More than anything.” Now he’d started, he couldn’t seem to stop talking. It had been the same with Bossuet and Musichetta, and Marius to an extent. Once Grantaire had a willing ear, he couldn’t help himself. “You think it’s just my father, don’t you?”

“What do you mean?” They clumped down the steps, the air still cold in the early morning light.

“You think he’s why I want to burn the house.” Grantaire watched Enjolras swing his sack over his shoulder as they reached the bottom, turning as he did so they could look at each other.

“Isn’t he?” None of the others had been so frank about it, except perhaps Musichetta, at times. Bossuet had needed a couple of drinks in him before he’d let Grantaire talk about it, and Marius had looked so distressed when Grantaire first started telling him that he’d made an effort to stop. Enjolras was blunt to the point of being rude.

“No.” Grantaire wasn’t quite sure how to react, so he walked on past Enjolras, heading for Joly’s house. “He’s dead. He can’t get me now.” It helped sometimes, he’d found, to say it out loud. It made it more real.

“It’s really all about the cellar?” Enjolras caught up, incredulous.

“I don’t care if you believe me,” Grantaire decided. “It’s poison, that cellar.” Enjolras fell silent, and they walked the rest of the way to Joly’s in their own thoughts.

 

Laundry was something Grantaire had loved when he was a child. It had been one of the few chores he’d had that allowed him to escape the house. These days it was less of a thrill, but he still didn’t mind it as much as the others. Bossuet shaved him and Marius while the clothes soaked, and they all worked together scrubbing and scraping the dirt out of the fabric.

Enjolras answered every question the others asked him about the village, though none of them brought up anything that might have traced back to Grantaire’s family, which he was glad of. For the most part, he lost himself in the work, though he looked up when Bossuet told Enjolras that he was very like his father, and Enjolras smiled and said, “You know, he’s not my father by blood.”

“He isn’t?” Marius raised his eyebrows, taken aback, and Grantaire kept his head down, not wanting to give away that he’d already known.

“No. Everyone else knows, so it’s not exactly a secret, but no one really brings it up, out of politeness. My parents met in Marçan – my mother was working in one of the laundries there, but she was dismissed because they found out she had children out of wedlock.” There was a note of defiance there, buried deep under Enjolras’ casual tone. Had any of them dared express disapproval, the consequences would have been dire, Grantaire felt, but none of them did.

Musichetta snorted. “Well it’s still a step up from being born in a brothel. How did your father meet her?”

Relaxing, Enjolras smiled, bending down to keep scrubbing a pair of his trousers. “He was eating in a tavern when he saw a man provoke her. She attacked him, and she would have been arrested if my father hadn’t acted as a witness and paid the fine for her. She says she didn’t trust him at first, but he offered her a job in Carentan, and she was desperate enough to take it. He brought her here to be a farm hand.”

“He wasn’t mayor then, was he?” Bossuet asked curiously.

“No, not at all. He’d come here to work in the orchards a few years before that, and ended up inheriting a lot of it when the old owner died and left it to him.”

“And no one was upset about that?” Musichetta raised an eyebrow. “This newcomer sweeping up a slice of land so easily?”

Enjolras shrugged. “Not everyone was at first, but they came around. The orchards aren’t his anymore – they’re communal. The village takes the profit and splits it equally.”

Marius brought the story back to its course. “Did your mother bring you and Cosette here with her when she came?”

“No, she didn’t even tell my father we existed until she was sure he wasn’t lying to her about the job. But eventually, she told him and they both came to get us. She’d lodged us with a family in a village called Petin. We were seven when we left – I don’t remember much of it. I remember my parents marrying when I was nine though.” He smiled. “It goes to show that not everything’s about blood.”

“Do you know who your blood father is?” Grantaire asked, only realising when Bossuet grimaced at him behind Enjolras’ back that it was a bit of a rude question, though Enjolras didn’t seem to care.

“No. My mother won’t talk about him, but I know he abandoned her. And us. As far as I’m concerned, my real father is Jean Valjean.”

Grantaire pondered on the story as they walked back to Enjolras’ apartment after wringing everything out as best they could. Hearing the truth of it made him even more ashamed of the things his father and the Thénardiers had said, as though Enjolras would be able to tell he’d heard his mother described as a whore, and her children as filthy bastards. He almost couldn’t believe that Enjolras and Cosette weren’t related to Valjean by blood – they were both so like him, especially Enjolras with his absurd belief in people’s goodness and his pride in the way the village was run.

“Are you sure he’s not your blood father?” he asked Enjolras finally, smiling when it made him laugh.

“I’m sure.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Why should it?”

Grantaire shook his head, looking down. “I don’t know.”

They walked in silence for a few steps, then Enjolras hefted his bag of dripping clothes higher and said, “Combeferre says it’s nurture against nature. Have you ever heard of that?”

“No?”

“Nature is what’s in you from birth, like the way some people are good at the same things as their parents or have the same habits or senses of humour. Nurture is what shapes you after you’re born, so all the things you learn from yourself and from other people. Personally, I believe nurture’s more important. Even if I do have some of the same traits as my blood father, I’ve been shaped and influenced far more by my real father. I am who I am because of him and my mother.”

Grantaire thought on that, frowning. “What if the nurture side of it’s been…not ideal?”

“Then that’s how it is. If it helps, from what I’ve heard of your father, you’re nothing like him.”

Trust Enjolras to cut right to the quick of the issue. Grantaire swallowed. “But what if it isn’t an either or with the nurture and nature stuff? What if both have been bad?”

“How old are you?”

“What?” Grantaire frowned. “Thirty-six. Why?”

“Because that means you’re already more than twice as old as you were when you left. Our childhoods are important, but you’ve had a life since then too.” Enjolras looked at him and shrugged. “Hasn’t that been just as important?”

Grantaire fell silent, letting Enjolras walk ahead of him as they approached his apartment. As Grantaire watched, he got a bucket of pegs from the outhouse and start pegging his washing up on the line strung between the outhouse and the porch, giving Grantaire an expectant look until he joined in. Which had changed him the most, his life in Carentan, or his life after it?

After, he decided as he began to drape his laundry over the line. His years in Carentan had been so similar they’d been practically interchangeable. Since leaving, his world had expanded in too many directions to count. By the time they went inside to warm up their freezing hands, Grantaire was smiling, a knot he hadn’t known was there loosening in his chest.

 

Digging foundations for a house was hard work, but in the end took less time than Grantaire had expected. The Larocques, for all that they weren’t paying for it, didn’t want anything grand. Three rooms on each storey, and an attic up top. For one reason or another, they’d decided against having a cellar.

He’d done similar work before from time to time, but his fiddling was usually enough to keep him in food and wine, so he ached from the labour after the first few days, submitting to Bossuet’s rather brutal shoulder massages while they sat in Feuilly’s tavern. They played again once his hands could flex enough to hold a bow, and he waited for the inevitable departure of his friends. Musichetta, as always, led the charge.

She was sick, she’d told him years ago, when they’d first met. She was incapable of staying in a place for more than a month or so. She couldn’t bear it. Bossuet had a song they’d only play when she wasn’t with them about her flighty ways, the melody caught between anger and sadness. So none of them were surprised when she began champing at the bit to leave, tapping her foot restlessly and drumming her fingers on the tabletop. If they didn’t go with her, she would go on her own. She preferred it that way sometimes, going ahead of the rest of them so that she could be lounging comfortably when they arrived.

Three weeks after they’d reached it, Grantaire watched his friends leave Carentan. Bossuet and Marius were clearly reluctant to go, but Marius knew they couldn’t manage without a fiddle and a guitar and Bossuet hated the thought of Musichetta going off on her own in unfamiliar territory, worried about what might happen to her. While Musichetta’s farewell hug was apologetic, she’d always refused to lie about what she needed.

Grantaire spent the evening alone in Enjolras’ parlour, playing as quietly as he could, long sad notes filling the small space. When Enjolras came back from the tavern, he frowned, but made no comment. Grantaire had been exiled from the next stage of the building after he’d demonstrated his poor skills with basic tools, so he was planning to explore the woods a bit more, and Enjolras, it appeared, was joining him.

“I won’t get lost,” Grantaire told him, not sure whether or not to be annoyed.

“I know. But I have little enough to do today. Do you mind if I come with you?” Enjolras looked as uncertain as Marius for a moment, and Grantaire quickly shook his head.

“I suppose not. I’ll stop to play at some point though,” he warned him. “You’ll be bored.”

“I doubt it. You’re very good.”

It shouldn’t have made Grantaire’s blood rush to his face, and he stared straight ahead to try and hide it. “I’m alright.”

Enjolras snorted. “You’re excellent. Michaud must have been a good teacher.”

“He was.”

“I wish I remembered him.”

“Why?”

Enjolras shrugged as they stepped into the shade of the trees. “I don’t remember a lot of things from when I was a child. Cosette thinks it’s why I’m so particular about keeping records of everything that happens here. I don’t want anything to be lost or forgotten.”

Grantaire frowned, something about that attitude rankling with him. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t understand how people could not care.” Enjolras’ eyes followed the path of a squirrel as it dashed up a tree and away into the branches above. “Every person is important. Everyone’s so unique – there’s no one else like you or me in the entire world. Isn’t that incredible? Isn’t that worth something?”

“There are hundreds of people like you and me,” Grantaire retorted, bringing Enjolras’ gaze firmly back to earth. “Well,” he amended, “maybe not like you. There’re definitely plenty of people like me. I’m not special – no one is.”

“You are though,” Enjolras frowned. “No one else in the world is going to look exactly like you, think exactly like you, possess the same set of skills and strengths or react to things in exactly the same way.”

“So? The differences are so tiny, they don’t matter at all. You might as well say that all snails are unique because their shells have different patterns. That doesn’t make them anything special, individually. They’re still going to eat your plants and leave slime everywhere. People are still going to be cheating, lying, foolish wastes of air.”

Enjolras stared at him. “How can you think that?”

“How can I not?” Grantaire laughed. “Have you ever met other people? Most of them would sell their own mothers for firewood when the snows come.”

“You think your friends would sell you for firewood?” Enjolras challenged, a glint to his eye that just made Grantaire smile wider.

“I think some people are less self-serving than others, sure,” he conceded. “But for the most part, people don’t care about anyone outside their chosen group of companions.”

“That’s not true.” Enjolras gestured back to the village. “I could go and ask anyone there for a favour and they’d help me.”

“They would,” Grantaire agreed. “Because you’re the mayor’s son, and they know you’re the sort of man who’d return that favour. If you were a stranger, they wouldn’t be so generous.”

“We were strangers when we met,” Enjolras argued. “I still invited you into my home, and my friends invited yours into theirs.”

“Because we had silver,” Grantaire said, his voice turning hard. “Because I’d proved by then I wasn’t lying about who I was. You’re telling me if we’d turned up just to play, we wouldn’t have ended up sleeping in a barn or on Feuilly’s floor?”

“Yes!”

“Then you’re deluding yourself.” Grantaire stomped through the undergrowth, the argument no longer enjoyable.

“There are good people in this village!” Enjolras took long strides to catch up, his own voice tight. “We’ve never turned travellers away before.”

“This village is no better than anywhere else,” Grantaire snapped. “The people here aren’t saints just because they live here. They’re no better than every other shit-filled cheat in the rest of the world.”

“Take that back.” Enjolras grabbed his arm, pulling him up short. Grantaire wrenched away from it, surprised by how strong Enjolras was under his prim clothes, unnerved by the way his skin was prickling from that brief second of contact. “My friends and family live here.”

“They’d look the other way if something horrible happened.” Irritation and weariness drained the anger from Grantaire’s body, and he turned to keep walking. His softer voice had thrown Enjolras off, and he followed with a frown.

“It’s not the same as when you lived here,” he said after almost a minute’s silence.

“Like hell it’s not. Everywhere’s the same. People knew what was happening to me, no one tried to stop it.” He was almost surprised by the bitterness in his voice, the strength and snap of it. There wasn’t an excuse, he reminded himself. Bossuet and Musichetta had spent years drilling it into him. It hadn’t been his fault. He hadn’t deserved it.

A sideways glance showed him Enjolras’ conflicted expression, and he pursed his lips when he caught Grantaire looking. “How do you know they knew?”

“The Thénardiers knew. Joly’s father knew.”

“Joly’s father?” Enjolras frowned, surprised.

“He saw.” Grantaire paused, catching sight of a cluster of mushrooms growing in the shadow of a fallen tree. Changing direction without looking at Enjolras, he checked them over and then started picking them. He wasn’t sure whether he anticipated Enjolras’ inevitable questioning with dread or satisfaction, a little sick at himself for wanting so badly to destroy Enjolras’ illusions of noble humanity. Part of him wanted to lie, but why should he? Lying was for sneaks, Chetta always said. He had nothing to hide.

“How?” Enjolras crouched down to help, still frowning.

“I caught a fever when I was about…I don’t know, ten or thirteen or somewhere in between. I collapsed at school and they took me to Doctor Amiot, and he took my shirt off to check me over. I know he saw the marks. He didn’t say anything when my father came to get me.” He’d been walked home with his father’s hand cold as a vice on the back of his neck, driving him forward and tightening when he’d stumbled. He’d been too ill not to cry that time as he’d been beaten and kicked upstairs, terrified by his father’s threats to put him in the cellar if he made a mess.

Enjolras’ silence was an empty space Grantaire couldn’t stop himself filling with guilt. “Sorry.”

“What for?” Enjolras looked at him.

“You like him, probably. Joly’s your friend.”

“That shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.” Enjolras sat back on his heels, hands full of mushrooms. “There has to be more to it than that though.”

“Not the way I remember it.” Grantaire sighed and took a large handkerchief out of his jacket off to put the mushrooms in, indicating for Enjolras to do the same. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.”

“Talking is good. It helps.”

“What have you ever needed to talk about?” It came out more cutting than Grantaire intended, but Enjolras smiled.

“Nothing that bad.” He rolled his mushrooms carefully into the makeshift pouch Grantaire had made of the handkerchief. “Nothing external.”

“What do you mean?” Was he imagining the discomfort in Enjolras’ expression as they stood up?

“I…overthink things, I suppose.” Enjolras looked away. “Do you want to keep going?”

“Yeah. What do you overthink?” Grantaire hesitated, then nudged Enjolras as they started walking again, slower than before. “Come on, I’ve been spilling my guts to you.”

“You’ve had practice, you said before.”

“Practice on me.” Grantaire grinned. “Come on. I promise I won’t make fun of you, whatever it is.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, but gave him a tiny nod of agreement as well. Still, he didn’t speak for so long that Grantaire was about to ask whether he’d changed his mind. Then suddenly, “I think about how people live. In Marçan, I was involved in several worker’s protests. They have workshops there you know, for things like glasswork and ceramics, and they’re almost always underpaid and overworked and there’s no protection of their rights and no…no basic compassion for their lives. I wanted to change the way things were done, and some progress was made while we were there, but not enough. I considered staying, but Cosette came to visit and made us come back. I know there’s value in what I do here, in the way I’ve helped the people of Carentan, but I still want to do more for everyone else.

“Cosette said if I’d stayed, I would have ended up getting myself killed, and I know she’s right.” Enjolras looked down, avoiding things he might trip over. “And in the long run, that would do more harm than good – what would that do to my family? And I love it here.” A pinch appeared between his brows. “My life is here, everyone I love is here. Is a life worth less because its scope is small? I wouldn’t think that of anyone else’s life, but I think it of mine. It isn’t fair that I should have such a good life when so many live in misery, but I don’t think it’s wrong of me to devote my time here to my home. Except for when I do.” He sighed and looked at Grantaire. “I overthink, as I said.”

Grantaire had to scrabble for a response, taken aback by the speech. Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been that. “You’re saying you want to save the world?”

Enjolras shook his head. “No. Only improve it.”

Grantaire couldn’t help poking a little fun. “You want to make all land communal?”

“It’s hardly a bad place to start, though in practice I’m not sure it would work perfectly.” Enjolras looked forward again. “I’d like a better system of governance. Each region is its own state, the way things are now, and accountability for breaking the law ranges from none at all to far too much.”

“How can you have too much accountability?”

“Say a man’s family is starving, and he can’t find work,” Enjolras said. “In desperation, he breaks the window of a bakery and steals a loaf of bread. Does he deserve to go to prison for that? While he’s away, his family dies. That’s not real justice. The law doesn’t need to break, but it should bend. Compassion should be at the centre of everything we do.”

“It isn’t though.”

“Well that’s where the improvement would come in.” Enjolras sighed. “It’s difficult to do anything of real scope from here though. And even if I did go to Marçan again, or maybe even somewhere bigger like Renoir, how much of a difference could I make there? The change has to come from the top, from the people with power. We’ve done that here, and it’s worked brilliantly, but people are reluctant to try it on a larger scale, because there’s more at stake.”

“You’ve done it here – what do you mean? The communal land?”

“That,” Enjolras nodded, “and more. My father became mayor six years ago, but he pushed for change before that as well. Sister Simplice can’t teach anymore because of her eyes and ears, and she has no family here. My father was the one who proposed we set aside a fund for the people of the village who need extra help, who can’t provide for themselves and have no one at hand to help them. Carentan acts then as a whole to provide support.”

Grantaire frowned. “And everyone agreed to that?”

“It went to a vote. Most people agreed that it was the right thing to do, especially when they were asked to seriously consider whether she deserved to die alone and hungry just because she had no family to care for her in her old age. No one deserves that. No one should ever have to go hungry or cold if the community has the ability to help them.”

It was an alien perspective, and Grantaire fell silent to absorb it, trying to understand how Enjolras came to such conclusions. Taught by his parents, no doubt, but where had they gotten these ideas from? In most places Grantaire had been, an old woman like Sister Simplice would have been sustained perhaps through random charity from her neighbours, if she was helped at all. More likely, people would turn away – everyone had their own problems, their pre-existing set of mouths to feed. Few could afford to offer a permanent place to a person who was incapable of contributing to the household.

Carentan’s small size helped, of course, but he knew from experience that even an issue right under everyone’s noses could still be happily ignored. If Valjean or someone like him had been mayor when he was a child here, would it have been the same?

Enjolras would say yes, naturally. Grantaire’s gut said otherwise. But the silence was better than their arguing, so he kept his peace.

They walked through the woods without direction, and as they did something in Grantaire settled. He knew these woods, and he’d forgotten. However much he’d been forced to stay inside, his father had been a woodsman, and they’d come out to the trees for his work. Coppicing, pollarding, charcoal burning, gathering, all of it. How had he forgotten? They were the only times he’d been something close to unafraid in his father’s presence. Never at ease, but not a hair’s breadth from terror the way he’d always been in the house.

How could he have forgotten that?

The trees were in full leaf, summer sun making the very air glow green. He could still recognise the trees by sight – ash, hazel, beech, oak, their steadiness reassuring. He’d been in forests since leaving Carentan, of course, but none of them had been this forest. Coming up through the woods towards Carentan from the west had been a struggle; walking in the eastern woods was entirely different.

He was about to say as much to Enjolras when he caught sight of someone to their right, approaching silently through the trees. He bumped Enjolras’ shoulder harder than he meant to and nodded to the stranger. “You know him?”

“Oh!” Enjolras broke into a smile at the sight of the person, who grinned back. “Jehan! Were you trying to sneak up on us?”

“Should’ve come from behind,” the stranger smiled, coming over with more noise now. “But I thought, better not, just in case your friend’s jumpy. You must be one of the musicians,” he added, sticking his hand out as he came within reach. “I’m Jehan.”

“Grantaire.” He shook Jehan’s hand, trying to remember if he’d seen him in the village at all.

“Jean Prouvaire,” Enjolras provided, which cleared up a lot of Grantaire’s confusion. The Prouvaires had always lived a bit apart from the village. His father had despised them as competition, though the fact of the matter was that they were simply better woodspeople than him.

“I remember your father,” Grantaire said, attempting clumsily to fill the silence that followed their handshake.

“He’d remember you,” Jehan smiled. “He still remembers your father. Are you coming back to take his place at last?”

“No!” Grantaire recoiled at the idea. “ _No_. The wood’s yours, don’t worry.”

“The wood is no one’s. You’d be welcome to stay, if you wished.” Strangely, Grantaire got the impression that Jehan really meant it. If he did return, he could imagine Jehan actually helping him find his feet in the forest again, the two of them working together. It was a strange vision, and he shook his head to clear it out.

“I’m only staying till the old house is burned.”

“Your father’s house?” Jehan’s smile faded, his eyes becoming shrewd. “That’s a good idea. I told you it should’ve been pulled down,” he added to Enjolras, who huffed.

“The Larocques needed a house, it was the right size –”

“It’s too small for them, I said that from the beginning,” Jehan said stubbornly. “It’s bad land. You know,” he nodded at Grantaire, who blinked, startled. “Nothing grows round it. Barely any weeds, even. Forest should’ve taken it when the family left, that’s the way it should’ve been done.”

“It’s a pointless tradition,” Enjolras argued. “Letting a good house go to waste like that, it’s senseless.”

Grantaire had forgotten that, too. It was a woodsman tradition, to let the house belonging to the family go back to the forest after the family had either all died or left. If Jehan had had his way, the house would have been stripped and left for the plants to retake. Though would they have done? Grantaire had forgotten the barren land as well. He’d assumed it was the shadow cast by the house, but what did grow close grew sickly. How had he forgotten that? How had he not noticed when he’d visited with Enjolras?

“Would’ve saved me a lot of time and money,” he muttered, shrugging in the face of Enjolras’ irritated look. “It would’ve done. My best case scenario was coming back to find you’d already pulled it down.”

Jehan gestured to him in triumph. “You see? You can take the woodsman out of the forest, but you can’t take the forest out of the woodsman. He remembers how it should be done.”

Enjolras sighed. “Well I’m clearly outnumbered, so I’ll make a graceful retreat. Will you come into the village soon, Jehan? We’ve missed you.”

“You might have, but some of the others have come out to me.” Jehan laughed and kissed Enjolras’ cheek at the wounded look he received for that. “I’ll try. What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

“I’ll try to come for Saturday then, but no promises.” With no warning, Jehan let out a piercing whistle that made Grantaire flinch, then jump as a dog exploded out of the undergrowth to his left and settled down again at Jehan’s feet.

“Fuck!”

“Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry!” Jehan flushed, reaching out to take Grantaire’s hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m just never sure of how far away she is, so…”

“It’s fine.” Grantaire squeezed Jehan’s hand and let go quickly, his heart racing. “Don’t worry about it.” The dog panted happily, her grey and brown coat a perfect camouflage. No wonder she’d been able to sneak up on them so well.

“Well, sorry again, in any case.” Jehan did look genuinely wretched, as if his whistle had done serious damage. He swallowed and turned to Enjolras, who hugged him tightly. “I’ll try to come,” he mumbled into Enjolras’ shoulder, and they kissed each other’s cheeks again before Jehan gave them a final nod and began to walk away, his dog staying behind to grin at Grantaire until Jehan whistled again and she bounded off after him.

“That’s Brindle,” Enjolras told Grantaire softly. “Jehan never goes anywhere without her. Are you alright?”

“It was only a whistle.” Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. We should get these mushrooms back.”

“I thought you wanted to play?” Enjolras looked at his violin case, and Grantaire’s lips twitched.

“If you’re that keen to hear me fumble a few notes, we can stop on the way back.”

Enjolras’ smile was pleased, so Grantaire couldn’t find any excuses to press on when they reached a clearing where an oak had fallen, making a convenient bench for the two of them. “It won’t be like when the others are with me,” Grantaire warned him, taking his fiddle out and plucking the strings, though he’d only tuned it last night. “It won’t sound as good.”

Enjolras just shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

“Have it your way.” He’d practiced enough times at the sides of roads in full earshot of passers-by that having an audience didn’t bother him. All he had to do was turn his head into the chin rest so Enjolras wasn’t visible, let his eyes fall half-closed, and start.

He ran through scales first, the way he always did – Michaud had drilled them into him so thoroughly that he could have played them in his sleep. Then he practiced sounds. Michaud had had technical names for things, pretty words like vibrato and spiccato, but if he bothered naming the techniques at all, Grantaire gave them his own names. Wobbling a note, bouncing it, double playing, sawing. But mostly he practised changing notes quickly, practicing his solo parts in the band’s various songs and making up new ones as he went.

He stopped when a bird burst from a tree behind them, startling him into silence. Only then did he register the ache in his neck, and he looked guiltily at Enjolras. “We should get back.”

“You’re very good.” Enjolras stood up and smiled, watching as Grantaire packed his fiddle safely back in its case. “How do you know whether it’s in tune?”

Grantaire shrugged, getting to his feet and picking up the handkerchief with the mushrooms. “I can just tell by now. The others can do it with their instruments as well, it’s nothing special.”

“I couldn’t do it.”

“There’s plenty of things you can do I can’t.” Grantaire started walking, praying he wouldn’t blush again. Hearing compliments from Enjolras made his heart twist in a way that was entirely too pleasant. “It’s nothing special, like I said.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Michaud must have been very good, to teach you so well.”

Grantaire smiled. “He was.”

“How did that happen?” Enjolras asked curiously. “Him teaching you?”

“I’d hide by his house when I skipped school, in the woods. I’d listen to him play. I think…” Grantaire tried to remember. “He must’ve caught me at it. I know I ended up just going straight into his house in the end, and he said that if I was going to avoid school, I might as well learn something. He was a bloody hard taskmaster,” he added, grinning. “If I hadn’t been so keen on hiding from maths in the schoolhouse, I wouldn’t’ve kept going back.”

“Really?” Enjolras was shocked. “But you love playing.”

“I do now, yeah, but no one’s any good when they start out, and a badly played fiddle sounds like hell. I stormed out sometimes, but I always came back.” He’d had nowhere else to go, no one else who welcomed him.

“Did your father know?”

“Yeah. Well, sort of. He didn’t for a while, or maybe he didn’t care, but when the teachers told him I’d been missing lessons, he got it out of me. He was always good with numbers, but I never had the knack. He didn’t like that.” An understatement. It had been one of Thénardier’s favourite taunts, if he was in the mood for it, and the rest of his rotten family had joined in, teasing, saying they’d give Grantaire a free drink if he could multiply two big numbers without counting on his fingers. He never managed it, and it was always followed up with a beating back at home for embarrassing his father in public.

“But you kept going?” Enjolras guessed, and Grantaire nodded.

“I kept skipping school, and I sneaked out of the house whenever I dared. It was the only thing I ever defied him on, really.” Even if it had cost him dear. He still thanked his lucky stars his father had never broken his fingers – he’d caned them bloody often enough, but he always stopped short of breaking the bones. Probably because he still wanted Grantaire to be able to do his chores. “When Michaud died, he left me his fiddle,” he added.

“Is that the same one?” Enjolras asked, pointing at the violin case.

“Ha, no.” Grantaire snorted. “I’ve had this one about ten years. Probably more, actually.”

“What happened to Michaud’s then?”

“Well, it was given to my father.” Grantaire tightened his grip on the case’s handle. “And he took it home and made me watch when he put his foot straight through it and tossed it all on the fire.” His memory of that was clearer than any others from the time he’d lived in Carentan, the heartbreak of it still painful. He was fairly sure he’d been thrashed afterwards for crying, but he couldn’t have said for certain.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said as they emerged from the woods, the sudden light bringing an embarrassed heat to Grantaire’s cheeks. Why did he keep telling Enjolras these things?

“I lived. And I’m still playing, and that’s what matters.”

Enjolras smiled at him, looking almost proud. “Exactly.” It was a look Grantaire couldn’t meet, and he kept his eyes averted the whole way back to Enjolras’ apartment, worried he would blush if he caught Enjolras’ eye again.

 

In the following days, he skulked awkwardly between the building site, the tavern, Enjolras’ apartment, and the woods. The last more and more frequently, as he found it easier to sleep under the trees where he knew the likelihood of being disturbed was slim. He showed up each morning to the building, where one of the friendlier carpenters, Bahorel, would tell him whether or not he would be trusted to help that day. If so, he would hang around. If not, he went to the forest, avoiding the area he knew the Prouvaires frequented.

Had he been anywhere else, he would have practically forced his company on others. He would have sought Jehan out, stayed in the tavern more, gone around asking for odd jobs – anything to keep from being alone. He hadn’t been out of Bossuet’s company for more than a day or so for years now, and without that pillar to lean on, he was listing in different directions, more preoccupied than ever with fantasies of Enjolras, not helped in the slightest by the conversations they’d have each night over supper.

Enjolras was eager to hear stories from beyond the Saiz, and matched Grantaire’s tales with accounts of his time in Marçan and anecdotes of his life in the village. A couple of times, he invited Combeferre and Courfeyrac over to join them, but perhaps noticing how much more reserved Grantaire became in their company, ceased bringing them over.

Grantaire wished he could explain to Enjolras or even himself why their presence – why anyone else’s presence – unsettled him. It was frightening, being alone. That was all he could think, over and over. Since finding Bossuet and then Musichetta, he’d never expected to be alone again, and now that he was he didn’t know how to act. It was frustrating. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were both clever, funny men. Usually Grantaire would have enjoyed eating with them.

He did feel easier when it was just him and Enjolras though, even if it just made the problem of his attraction to him even worse. Enjolras was full of ideas to change the world and opinions on human character, and it might have been alright if only he didn’t fully live up to his own ideals. That marriage of philosophy and action was something Grantaire found utterly magnetic, and to make matters worse, Enjolras wouldn’t stop touching him. Casual, fleeting touches that Grantaire knew now, having seen him with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, were only marks of friendship, and not flirting after all. It was maddening, and it made him feel more off-balanced than ever.

His unsteadiness wasn’t helped by his fractured sleep.

It was helped even less by his growing paranoia. What were the village people saying about him? What did they think he was doing, coming back out of the blue and kicking the Larocques out of their home? Did they glare at him when he wasn’t looking? Did they wish him gone? Did they wish him dead? He was sure they watched him. He couldn’t bear to stay in the tavern if there were more than a few people in there with him, not without the band acting as a buffer. Who here could he relax with?

Enjolras offered to accompany him to Feuilly’s in the evenings, but Grantaire refused. Combeferre asked if he would be willing to play his fiddle for the schoolchildren, and Grantaire stammered out a panicked rejection. Joly invited him back to his house, and Grantaire wound up making a long, embarrassing speech about Bossuet and Musichetta’s many virtues and vices before practically fleeing the poor doctor’s company.

Only with Bahorel did he unwind a little, enough to accept a wrestling challenge while everyone else ate their lunch and cheered them on. But away from the building site with its easy rhythm of work and manual labour, Grantaire clenched up tighter than a clam with lockjaw whenever he wasn’t with Enjolras. He couldn’t live, it seemed, without someone steadier than himself to lean on, and he counted the days waiting for Bossuet, Musichetta, and Marius to come back.

 

Joly, it turned out, was wilier than Grantaire had expected. Two weeks after the band’s departure into the world beyond Carentan, Grantaire came out of the woods in the early evening, a little damp from having bathed in the river earlier, and was surprised on his way back to Enjolras’ by Joly seeming to appear from nowhere between two houses. He was leaning against one of them, a large basket of plants at his feet.

“Ah,” he said, smiling. “A friendly face. Could I ask a favour? I wouldn’t normally, but my leg gets stubborn in the rain.”

“It’s not raining,” Grantaire said warily.

“It will tomorrow, you just wait. I can always tell.”

Grantaire rubbed a hand through his hair. “Ask away then.”

“Help me carry these to the house? I’ve been out collecting with Cosette, but it gets a little trickier to balance everything when I have to use my cane.”

It wasn’t as though Grantaire could refuse. He went down the slope towards Joly and picked up the basket. “Will you be alright?”

“Oh, fine. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, it just gets stiff. I didn’t exercise it enough when it was healing, so now it thinks its natural position is lying out flat with nothing much to do. If only we could all be so lucky.” Joly pushed himself away from the house, leaning on his cane and gesturing for Grantaire to lead the way.

“You’ll use all of these?” Grantaire asked, trying to keep the silence from choking him.

“Certainly. There are some things that just grow better wild than in a garden. I’ve got theories about some of them, but no proof just yet, and I don’t want to bore you with it all.”

“No, go ahead,” Grantaire encouraged, slightly desperate. It was obviously the right thing to do though, since Joly beamed at him and launched into a near-incomprehensible ramble about the effect of the magnetic poles on plant growth, and things like symbiotic biological relationships and grazing patterns of wildlife, and what sounded to Grantaire like a lot of rubbish about the phases of the moon influencing species development.

The nonsense, cheerfully delivered, carried them all the way to the back door of Joly’s house, where Grantaire’s nerves finally drew a line. “I should get back,” he muttered. “Enjolras…he’ll be cooking, I’ll just leave you here, if that’s alright.”

“It would be,” Joly agreed. When he didn’t open the door or take the basket, however, Grantaire looked at him and saw that he was being given a serious appraisal. “I don’t want you to think I’ve tricked you here,” Joly said in a low voice, “I know you don’t want to see my father, for whatever reason, but ever since you’ve come back he’s asked to see you. He’s…distressed.” A slightly uncomfortable look crossed Joly’s face. “I won’t force you to come in or meet him in any other way, but…I want to assure you that his intentions are good, I’m sure of it.”

“You would think that though,” Grantaire said before he could stop himself. “He’s your father.”

“What does that have to do with it?” Joly’s lips curved up ever so slightly, his smile managing to be kind without being patronising. “Plenty of people think ill of their fathers. As you grow up, you learn to see them as people, not gods.”

Something about that phrasing rattled Grantaire, and he found himself staring at Joly without being able to look away. After a few long seconds, Joly shrugged and smiled, pushing the door open with his free hand and then taking the basket from Grantaire. “Thank you for the help. I appreciate it.”

Grantaire’s brain didn’t catch up in time to tell Joly he was welcome before the door had closed, and he was alone in the herb garden that flourished in Joly’s back yard. He stayed outside for almost a minute, but didn’t go in. Eventually, he turned on his heel and headed back to Enjolras’ as he’d intended to all along, his thoughts and memories chasing each other in circles.

 _See them as people, not gods._ People, not gods. What did that remind him of?

 _Plenty of people think ill of their fathers._ He certainly thought ill of his. He’d never seen his father as a real person, or a god.

But his father had seen himself as a god.

Grantaire sighed, almost at the steps to Enjolras’ apartment. That was it. His father had said a few times (or shouted) that he was Grantaire’s god. There was no church in Carentan – the founders had disapproved of religion – but there were holy books at the school that Grantaire remembered studying as a child, very distantly. A Bible, a Torah, and a Quran. Back then, his father had certainly exercised enough power over his life to be comparable to a god.

The warmth of Enjolras’ apartment was enough to banish the maudlin reminiscences for the time being, but of course they returned once he went to bed. A nightmare of his father beating him (hand like a clamp on the back of his neck, pinning him down, pain like fire all down the backs of his thighs) woke him in the early hours, and he didn’t sleep again for a long time.

In the morning, it was raining.

“Joly told me he can tell when it’s going to rain,” Grantaire said over breakfast. Enjolras smiled, as he always did when one of his friends was mentioned.

“He can, almost always. His leg gets stiff when the atmosphere changes, he says. It’s actually quite helpful sometimes.”

“I can imagine.”

Instead of going to the building site that morning, Grantaire headed for Joly’s house, a sort of fog clouding his head. Joly’s father had seen the marks. He’d seen them. Did he want to apologise? It was too late for that – years too late. He’d seen the marks when Grantaire was about twelve, and there had been years of abuse after that, years he might have been spared if the man had only said something.

There was no excuse. Grantaire mouthed it to himself as he walked, his steps in time to the words. It was what the others always said. There was no excuse for hurting a child like that, and no excuse for ignoring it. It hadn’t been his fault. He hadn’t deserved it.

If it hadn’t been raining, he might have lingered for much longer on the back doorstep. It was a soft downpour, but steady, so Grantaire’s hair and shoulders were wet but he wasn’t yet feeling it on his skin. He had to take several deep breaths before knocking, and another before pushing the door open on hearing a man call, “Come in.”

Inside, the kitchen was empty. It didn’t look the way Grantaire remembered – he thought every wall had been covered in shelves, but in fact there were only two tall cabinets that he supposed held shelves inside them. The sturdy table was there though, cleverly designed so that the height could be adjusted. He’d lain on that table, but he couldn’t remember what it had felt like. He’d been too fevered.

“One minute,” a man said from the living room. “Madame Fontaine, is that you?”

Grantaire cleared his throat. “No.”

“What’s that? Patrice Baudet, is that you I hear coughing?”

“No,” Grantaire whispered. He closed his eyes and made himself say it again, louder. “No.”

“Then who’s there? Let me see.” An old man creaked out of the living room, a cane in each hand. He had almost no hair on his head left, and he was more wrinkled than anyone Grantaire had ever seen, but he still recognised him. The glasses were the same. Doctor Amiot squinted through them at him. “Who have we here? Who…oh.” He blinked and straightened, a cane knocking against the floor. “Martineau? Grantaire Martineau?”

Grantaire was sweating, and he backed up without even realising it. What had he been thinking? The knowledge that this man had seen him exposed was suddenly overwhelming, crushing, and Grantaire turned to leave, a band around his lungs squeezing and squeezing.

“Wait!” the doctor cried. “Wait, don’t go.”

His canes and his feet were loud on the floor, and with his hand on the door handle Grantaire said, “Stop.” Silence fell. Grantaire closed his eyes, breathing it in. The old man would listen. And he could leave if he wanted. And if he said anything to anyone else, well, so what? Grantaire had told people before. He’d told Enjolras. It was hardly a secret. And even if it was, what did he have to be ashamed of? He hadn’t deserved it. It hadn’t been his fault.

He turned around, and didn’t miss the relief that crossed the doctor’s face. “Would you like to come through?” he asked, his voice shaking just slightly. “We’re less likely to be disturbed.”

Grantaire nodded, the tiniest inclination of his head. The wrinkles on Doctor Amiot’s face shifted and multiplied as he smiled and turned to go back behind the counter. Grantaire had to steel himself to follow, part of him shocked at how old the man was. He remembered the doctor with grey hair, yes, but he’d always been robust. Joly had clearly been a late surprise for his parents.

“I hoped you would come. Please, sit.” Grantaire waited long enough to see where the doctor would sit before lowering himself to the couch. Being too close would be too much for his already buzzing brain, he was sure. It took Doctor Amiot several seconds to lower himself into his own chair, and he finally achieved it with a grunt of satisfaction, putting his canes between his legs so they wouldn’t fall.

“You hoped I’d come,” Grantaire repeated into the fresh silence, looking at the canes rather than Doctor Amiot’s face.

“Yes.” The doctor sucked in a rattling breath. “I’ve thought of you often, since you left. More than I did while you were here, I think. I…I wanted to apologise to you, Monsieur. I failed you.”

Something like a physical blow rushed through Grantaire’s chest, and he found himself squeezing his own hands together, gripping them to anchor himself so he could catch his breath.

Doctor Amiot sighed. “I have thought of you so many times. I should have done things differently.”

He hadn’t expected this. Despite the signs pointing to this outcome, Grantaire hadn’t even thought of this possibility. “Why?” he blurted, still staring at the canes. “I don’t – why are you saying this?”

“Because you are here,” Doctor Amiot said, surprised. “I always told myself that if you ever returned, or if I ever heard you mentioned, I would send you a letter or try to see you.”

“You didn’t come to see me though.” Grantaire closed his eyes and frowned, trying to make sense of it while his head felt like it was full of tangled wool. “I’ve been here for weeks, I haven’t seen you at all.”

“Yes, well.” When he coughed, it was like an old bird clacking its beak. “I can hardly leave the house these days, and when I heard you were tearing down your old home, I thought…well, I wondered whether you would want to see me at all. I thought perhaps it might be better, might be more, hm, considerate, to leave it up to you. I wouldn’t want to force bad memories on anyone.”

He was a coward. Grantaire finally looked at him and saw it, saw the hesitation and fear in the old man’s watery eyes and trembling hands, in the way he hunched when he was sitting down, and the way he held onto his canes with one hand as an extra measure to stop them falling down where he wouldn’t be able to reach.

But of course he could see it. Like recognised like. Grantaire was a coward as well.

Though perhaps slightly less of a coward than he was naturally inclined to be. He doubted he would have been able to come in at all if he hadn’t had Bossuet and Musichetta’s firm voices in his head telling him he wasn’t to blame for what had happened to him, or the memory of Marius’ strength when facing his future without his grandfather to draw on. If it hadn’t been for Joly’s words last night, he would never have dared enter. And he was here now. He’d imagined facing Doctor Amiot dozens of times over the years, and now he could really do it.

In his imaginings, he’d shouted and raved, made huge with fury and pain. The doctor had been a villain to be conquered, not an old man offering apologies.

If that part wasn’t the same, at least the question he’d always wanted to ask could be. “Why did you send me back?” he spoke before he could overthink it, knowing he’d only end up silent if he did. “You saw…” The marks, he didn’t say, but he didn’t need to say – Doctor Amiot nodded, his eyes closed. His eyelids were like the thinnest paper, blue and fragile.

“I should have done more,” he said quietly. “But you were so insistent, and when your father collected you, he was so convincing. I began to question what I’d seen with my own eyes.”

“What?” Grantaire jerked his head, trying to break free of the confusing fog in his head. “I don’t understand, what do you mean?”

“I asked you about your back, and your legs.” Doctor Amiot frowned, and Grantaire leaned back, leaning away from his pity. “I asked who’d hurt you, you said no one. You told me you’d done it to yourself, falling out of trees and getting into scrapes with your father’s tools. I asked if it was any of the children at school and you denied it completely. I asked your father about it when he got here and he said the same, that you were clumsy and always getting into mischief.”

Lies. Grantaire wanted to say it, scream it, but he couldn’t make a sound. All he could do was shake his head, wide-eyed. Doctor Amiot sighed again. “I shouldn’t have let it go. I could tell something was wrong, but neither of you would say so, so what could I do? I forgot about it. Or I pretended to. I failed in my duties.” He looked down at his knees, the thin knobs of them barely filling his trousers. “As I said, I am truly sorry.”

What difference did that make?

This wasn’t what he’d imagined at all.

Who did he think he was, apologising like that? The rage was swift and sudden, carrying Grantaire to his feet so he towered above the old doctor. How dare he apologise? What good were apologies now? Grantaire wanted to break him into pieces, drown him, bury him so he’d never have to see the frail old body again, or hear his tremulous voice spouting apologies, as if apologies would make up for the crime he’d committed.

Parts of Grantaire butted in, reminding him of Joly’s kindness, asking him what the doctor was supposed to have done, given denials in the face of evidence.

Doctor Amiot looked up at him without the fear Grantaire had seen before. Where it had been was only sadness, and Grantaire backed away from it, the backs of his legs knocking into the couch. “You expect forgiveness?” he said harshly.

“No.” The doctor was as quiet as Grantaire was loud. “I wouldn’t ask for that.”

Grantaire’s hands formed fists. He wanted to pummel the bastard’s pity out of him, rip his eyes out so he wouldn’t look at him like that, so he wouldn’t look at anything ever again.

How much did he look like his father right now?

The thought snapped something in Grantaire, and the rage flooded out as though a dam had broken, leaving him weak and shaken, scared of his own anger.

He left without looking at the doctor again, afraid that if he did the fury would come back and he’d follow through on his horrible thoughts of a moment before. Bursting out of the back door, he turned away from the first person he saw on the porch of the nearest house and ducked down the side of the building, heading for the woods, imagining he could hear voices like baying dogs at his back.

He had to get out, he had to hide, he had to be where no one could see him.

Had he really told the doctor he’d hurt himself? He couldn’t remember it, but it would hardly be surprising. He’d had countless opportunities to tell people, hadn’t he? But he’d never breathed a word. He’d been scared of his father, of course, and for good reason. Not just for the beatings he could deal out, but for what Doctor Amiot had said – his father could be convincing, oh yes. No one would have believed him, so Grantaire had never told. He’d always brought it on himself, after all. Hadn’t it always been his fault?

He hit the trees at a run, set only on losing himself in them.

Other parents beat their children, didn’t they? Spare the rod, spoil the child. Thénardier had always agreed, and other people had as well. They’d laughed along when his father had said it, a hand too tight on Grantaire’s shoulder or the back of his neck. _Spare the rod, spoil the child._ He’d always deserved it. He’d make too much noise, too much mess, he’d make mistakes, he’d fall behind in school, burn the dinner. He’d _deserved_ punishment for all his transgressions. His father had been trying to teach him, that was all.

And if he’d wanted help, all he’d needed to do was tell someone, but he hadn’t. He’d known they wouldn’t believe him, who would believe him? Everyone knew he was a useless lump, good for nothing, feckless, lazy, stupid –

He tripped, the shock jerking him out of his thoughts for a second before his knees hit the ground and he fell heavily onto his chest, hands coming up instinctively to stop his face smashing into the forest floor as well.

He belonged here, in the dirt. How many times had his father told him? And how many times had he failed to stop it? If his father had beaten him, it was his own fault, both for provoking the violence and failing to escape. And if he was still suffering, wasn’t that his own fault as well? There was no shortage of ways he could put an end to it. He could do it here and now – a belt around his neck with the end tied to a sturdy branch; that would do it. His knife was back in Enjolras’ apartment, but he could use it on himself; that might be quicker than hanging.

But thinking of Enjolras, even indirectly, gave his racing mind pause.

What would happen if he did end it? What would happen to the Larocques’ new house? What if they gave up and they stayed where they were, with the cellar gaping open, sucking the children towards it?

What would his friends say?

Bossuet would tell him they loved him. Musichetta would say he was worth more than all the gold and silver in the world. Marius would lie and insist that Grantaire was strong.

They would come back soon. He just had to bury this whirlwind and wait for them to return. They would believe him – they’d always believed him. When he’d first told Bossuet, he’d offered to show his scars as proof and Bossuet had said he didn’t need to – he took Grantaire’s word for it. They had never asked why he’d never tried to tell anyone while it was happening. They always told him he hadn’t deserved it.

“It wasn’t my fault,” he breathed, the leaves beneath his lips shifting. “It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault.”

Said enough times, the words became a spell, pulling him back towards something resembling sanity. It took longer for him to push himself to his feet, and longer still for him to finally start making his way back to Carentan. But in the end, he hadn’t run as far as he thought. He resolved to avoid Joly until the others came back and he could ask for their help. As long as they came back soon, he could manage. He could keep himself together until then.

 

_Water runs down the window, distorted, glass green and opaque. The outside world is a blur, barely there, non-existent. He touches the wall and his hand comes away wet, green, brown. The house is rotting. Damp-dank-dark, the water soaking in until it drips from the ceilings, pools on the floor, overflows from the bowls he’s put out to try and catch it all. They’re on a river, so wide it’s more like a sea, but the water isn’t sticky with salt. It’s deep and brown and full of weeds._

_The current bears them along, the floorboards tilting, tilting, tilting. He hits the wall and as the house sways the other way, falls off his bed and through the floor, soft wood splintering wetly around him, his fall slow slow slow –_

_He crouches in the corner, hands over his head as his father throws things at him, bottles and cups and plates and food, the objects hitting him and bouncing off, his panicked breathing filling the space between his mouth and arms and the wall, so loud he can’t hear anything else, anything but the creak of the house, the building a vessel, a boat, a sinking ship that’s going to drag them all down and drown them not in water, but in darkness._

_The cellar door opens –_

_He lies flat on the floor under his bed and presses his cheek to the wood, trying to remember the tree it used to be part of. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. There’s nothing of the living forest left. Nothing grows here. Everything rots. The floor begin to bend under him, his weight too much for the sagging boards, damp against his body. It splinters, coming apart, pulled to pieces, splitting, tearing, and he starts to fall through the gap._

_The cellar door opens –_

_He’s in the dining room, and he’s not allowed to be here, not in this room, not in the finest room in the house, not here, not here, it’s forbidden and he’s running out, past the parlour where the cellar door is **opening** –_

Grantaire woke up in mid-fall, the thud of his body hitting the ground almost masking his terrified shout. The dark of the room was suffocating, a heavy feel to it as though it held physical weight, and Grantaire struggled to his feet to get to the window, scrabbling at the catch to push it open and draw in lungfuls of cold night air.

Not for the first time, he thanked his lucky stars that Enjolras was a deep sleeper. As long as Grantaire could stay in his own bedroom overnight, Enjolras wouldn’t find out how bad his nightmares were. He stayed at the window until he was shivering, and left it open a crack when he went back to bed. Sleep wouldn’t come again for ages, if it came at all, so Grantaire tried to distract himself by thinking about what he would do when he left Carentan.

Head back across the Saiz into known territory, for a start. Sleep in barns and crowded attic rooms with the whole band again. Drink himself into a stupor. Find someone passably good-looking to sleep with, maybe more than once. Find more than one, even. The last time he’d had sex had been a good couple of weeks before they’d started the journey to Carentan, and he wasn’t naturally given to chastity.

Grantaire entertained his sleep-starved brain with increasingly ridiculous and impossible scenarios for the first sexual encounter he’d have on leaving the village until the sky began to lighten, and then he managed to sleep for perhaps half an hour before Enjolras was knocking on his door, telling him breakfast was ready.

He’d resigned himself by the time he left Enjolras’ apartment to another day of tired eyes and awkward avoidances, but that expectation dissolved just before lunch, when Bahorel called his name and nodded to something behind him. “Aren’t those your lot?”

Grantaire turned and literally dropped everything, hammer thudding to the ground and nails falling from his hand as he ran towards the unmistakable figures of his bandmates coming down the hill towards him. The closer he got, the lighter he seemed to be, so it felt perfectly natural for Bossuet’s hug to lift him into the air.

“Miss us, did you?” Bossuet laughed, and Grantaire hugged him back tightly, laughing as Musichetta and Marius joined in. He felt properly warm for the first time in weeks, so relieved he thought for a terrifying second that he might cry. He swallowed it down and held on tighter, just for a few more seconds. Until now, he hadn’t realised how scared he’d been that they might not come back, that they’d enjoy his absence and journey on without him.

“Miss a face like yours?” he joked. “I’d have to be mad. Chetta on the other hand…”

She smacked his shoulder as he peeled himself away from Bossuet to hug her as well, kissing both her cheeks. Marius followed, his grin looking as large as Grantaire’s felt. “We missed you!” he said, kissing Grantaire’s cheek. “It’s not the same without a violin.”

“Ahh, so it’s not my company you missed,” Grantaire teased, almost breathless he felt so light. “Only my playing. I see how it is.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Relax, Marius, he’s not serious.” Musichetta smacked him again, beaming. “How’s it been here? You’ve made progress on that mess.” She nodded to the house, which had a frame and floors, growing slowly but surely.

“Mess?” Grantaire protested. “It’s going to be a palace!”

“Oh, no doubt.” Musichetta looked over his shoulder. “Looks like they’re getting lunch. Is it open to guests?”

“If the guests work in the afternoon, sure.” Grantaire grinned and jerked his head in the direction of the pot a pair of children had brought down to the site. Several of the workers brought their own food, but most had whatever soup or stew was delivered that day. The duties were shared between several families, as Grantaire understood it, the ingredients paid for out of his pocket, which he made a point of not mentioning.

What had begun as a dreary morning ended with Grantaire going to Feuilly’s for the first time that week, fiddle in hand, itching with the desire to play with the others again. The tavern filled up to overflowing, and they played for almost two hours. At the end, as they were packing up, the mayor came over to shake their hands and ask if they would be able to play for the harvest celebration at the end of the next month.

“We’ve not had music so lively for several years, and I know everyone would be thrilled to dance to something with real life in it.”

“So long as we’re paid, we’ll play all night,” Bossuet grinned. “Grantaire’s house won’t be finished by then, so we’ll still be around.”

Sitting down after the mayor’s departure, Marius whispered to Grantaire, “What’s the celebration like?”

“No idea.” Grantaire swigged his wine and shrugged. “I never went. Enjolras!” Two tables over, Enjolras turned. Guilt pierced Grantaire suddenly as he realised that Enjolras had been held back from spending his evenings with his friends because of him.

“Yes?”

Grantaire pushed the feelings down. “What’s the harvest celebration like?”

Enjolras’ lips twitched, and he turned back for a moment to excuse himself from his companions before coming over with his chair to take a seat at their table. “You never went?”

“Never.” Grantaire took another drink, both berating himself for pulling Enjolras away from his friends and pleased that he’d come so readily. “What’s it like?”

“It’s a celebration.” Enjolras smiled, shrugging innocently at Grantaire’s eyeroll. “It’s all in the name. We decorate the meeting hall with leaves and corn dolls and all sorts. The children do a lot of it, but there are some decorations that are brought out every year. We start at the north field by pouring some wine on the earth and leaving some corn behind, then we come in a procession to the hall. We all eat on tables outside, then go in and dance. It doesn’t usually stop until the early hours, sometimes not even till dawn. Cosette looks forward to it every year – as soon as the spring celebration’s past, it’s all she can talk about, and once this is past, she’ll fix her mind on spring again.”

“It sounds like fun.” Bossuet shot a grin at Musichetta. “I bet between us we can get Joly to dance.”

“Bet he’ll dance with me first,” she said instantly.

“That’s not fair! You have feminine wiles! All I’ve got is my charm, and you’ve got plenty of that as well!”

“Life’s not fair though.” She toasted him, smirking. “And I like to win.”

“All women are cruel,” Bossuet sighed, turning to Marius. “You’ll learn that in time. At least Grantaire keeps himself well away from their temptations and tricks.”

“Like men are any better!” Musichetta snorted. “When we first met, you told me you were a fallen nobleman!”

“Well, I knew you wouldn’t believe me, so what was the harm? Enjolras, you’ve not fallen prey to the siren song of a woman’s attractions, have you?”

To Grantaire’s delight (and Bossuet’s too if his laugh was any indication), Enjolras blushed pink. “No,” he said quickly. “What about you, Marius?”

Marius went a matching colour, and the rest of them laughed, Grantaire rocking back in his chair with mirth. “He’s shyer than a mouse,” he told Enjolras, to spare Marius the agony of having to avoid the subject of Cosette with her own brother.

“Mice aren’t shy,” Musichetta interrupted. “How many times have we been tickled by mice in the night? Birds are shy.”

“What’s Marius then?” Bossuet smiled, leaning his chin on his hand. “A robin?”

“They’re cocky little buggers,” Grantaire disagreed, turning in his chair to give Marius a good look. “No, I think he’s some sort of finch.”

“Or maybe a tit?” Musichetta suggested, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Marius cleared his throat, blush fading. “I’d rather be a sparrow.”

“A sparrow?” Bossuet raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

“They used to live in the roof of my grandfather’s house.” Marius smiled. “I watched them. Really, they’re the only little bird I could identify on sight.”

“You should go with Cosette on one of her wood walks,” Grantaire said, nonchalant. “She could tell you plenty about birds, if you’re interested. Isn’t that right, Enjolras?”

“She knows as much about the forest as Jehan, I’d say.” Enjolras smiled. “Though maybe Jehan would say otherwise.”

With Marius’ blush back in full force, Grantaire took pity on him and left him alone for the rest of the night. He almost suggested they all sleep together in a barn or on Feuilly’s floor (if he’d let them) when they got up to leave, but sense stilled his tongue. What sort of fool would choose a barn over a bed? So he went back to Enjolras’ as usual. Expecting to go straight to bed, he was surprised when Enjolras got a bottle of wine out of a small cupboard and suggested they sit down in the parlour. Surprised, but certainly not opposed.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.” Grantaire leaned back on the couch and took another sip of his wine.

“Earlier…” Enjolras looked a little pink, his hands tight around his own cup. “All those things Bossuet was saying – do you only sleep with men?”

If he’d been sober, perhaps he might have been more surprised. Blanketed by a belly of wine, however, Grantaire just shrugged. “Mostly. I like women too, but mostly I prefer men.”

“Did you know, when you lived here?”

Grantaire gave that question more serious consideration, actually trying to remember. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I barely remember. There wasn’t really room in my head for any of that.”

Enjolras glanced at him. “That changed when you left though.”

“Obviously.” Grantaire grinned and drained his cup, reaching past Enjolras for the bottle. “Not right away though. The only thing I wanted when I ran was a new fiddle.” Cup refilled, he topped Enjolras’ up as well. “Saved for months to buy one. Barely ate, slept on the street. Once I had it, everything got easier.” He replaced the bottle on the table, keeping his eyes on Enjolras as he settled back. “You didn’t ask about that though.”

Enjolras shook his head, lips twitching for a moment before he looked down and took a drink. “I don’t mean to pry,” he said, lowering his cup to his knees again and looking sideways at Grantaire. “I’m sorry if I am.”

“You’re not. Or, well, you are,” Grantaire amended, grinning, “but what else would I expect by now? I don’t mind.” Quite the opposite. There was something as intoxicating as wine about discussing such things with Enjolras. “I suppose I’m curious as to why you’re curious though,” he added, knocking their feet together.

That pinch appeared between Enjolras’ brows again, and he frowned down at his cup. “I’ve never…growing up there was only Combeferre, and we’ve always been like brothers. There’s no one else here, and I wouldn’t want people to gossip anyway, and in Marçan I was so busy. I’m like Combeferre, and you,” he said finally, in a bit of a rush. “But I’ve never done anything about it.”

Grantaire took another drink while he absorbed that, both triumphant and sobered. He’d guessed, in a half-conscious sort of way, that Enjolras was of a kind with Combeferre, but he’d expected him to have at least experimented during his time away. What else was going to the big town for?

“I wondered what it’s like, I suppose,” Enjolras muttered, definitely more pink in the cheeks after his confession. “I expect you think I’m quite the country bumpkin.”

“No!” Grantaire protested, louder than he’d intended. “No,” he said again, softer, when Enjolras looked at him with raised eyebrows. “It’s hardly…people can make a meal of it all, but it’s not like it’s the be-all end-all. I don’t think you’re a bumpkin.”

“You don’t think it’s important?” Enjolras asked, eyebrows rising higher in disbelief.

Grantaire shrugged helplessly, changing his mind – discussing this with Enjolras was just another form of torture. “It’s fun, sure, but after the first two or three times you know what it’s like and it’s…it’s like a dance,” he decided. “There are variations, but once you learn the basic steps, it’s just more of the same. Some partners will be better than others, and I imagine if you stick with the same partner, you’d practice till you get it near perfect every time – that’s what Bossuet and Chetta imply, anyway – but if you’re sleeping with a lot of strangers, it’s a bit of a lottery. It’s usually nothing special.”

“You would say that though,” Enjolras said, sounding oddly despondent. “You’ve danced the dance more than two or three times.”

“Well…” Grantaire floundered, not sure how to make him feel better. “You can ask me anything you want.” Because apparently he enjoyed suffering.

Enjolras looked at him, eyes narrow, then took a breath and said, “Could I ask you to show me?”

Grantaire’s first thought was that neither of them had drunk enough for such a question to even be conceived of, let alone posed. His second was a whir of memories and panic – had Enjolras been flirting all along? Had he wanted Grantaire the whole time? What was going to happen now? His third was that Enjolras was waiting for an answer, possibly nervous, even if he wasn’t showing it. “Yes,” he managed to say, hoping his astonishment wasn’t too obvious.

Enjolras didn’t look away from him, and Grantaire was suddenly very aware of his body. “Would you be doing it because you’re living here?”

“What? No!” At least that snapped him out of his shock. “Of course not.”

“Why then?”

“I’d be a fool not to.” That, and fact that the size of the torch Grantaire now carried for him was roughly comparable to a bonfire. Grantaire stared, no longer certain that he’d asked in earnest. “Did you mean it?”

Enjolras nodded, meeting his eyes without hesitation. “Did you?”

“Of course.”

“Then…” Enjolras trailed off expectantly and Grantaire realised with a start that he was waiting for Grantaire to take the lead.

“Right.” Grantaire swallowed and considered draining the rest of his wine, then put it down on the table instead. He needed to be in control of himself for this. He needed it to go well, he’d wanted it for so long. Without really thinking, he stood up, watching as Enjolras followed suit.

“Do we need lots of room?” Enjolras asked as Grantaire stepped over the table to the middle of the parlour. To his relief, Enjolras seemed more amused than anything else.

“No, but…our knees were in the way, sitting down, and the table…” Grantaire tried to smile. “I don’t want it to be disappointing.”

“After that whole speech about how this is nothing special?” Enjolras said dryly, coming to stand opposite him. The fire cast Grantaire’s side in heat, Enjolras’ face in light. His hair shone, and Grantaire licked his lips and moved a little closer, his heart pounding.

“That doesn’t mean it can’t be enjoyable.”

Now they were so close, Enjolras’ humour faded, his shoulders tight. Grantaire braced himself and touched his upper arm. “Relax. It’s only a kiss.”

“What if I do it wrong?” That pinch again, right between his eyebrows. Grantaire wanted to smooth it away, so smiled, trying to follow his own advice and relax.

“There’s not much you could possibly do wrong.”

“What _could_ I do wrong?”

“Well, think of anything you wouldn’t want me to do and don’t do that. I’ll follow your lead.”

“You’re supposed to be the one showing me,” Enjolras muttered, eyes lowering to Grantaire’s lips.

Grantaire swallowed. “Remember all that stuff you say about every person being unique?”

“Yes?”

“Every person kisses differently.” He wasn’t entirely sure whether that was true, but it felt true, and certainly like the right thing to say. “This is going to be new to me as well.”

They swayed a little closer, only inches between their chests now. Grantaire flattened his palm against Enjolras’ shoulder, holding on carefully and tilting his head up to press their lips together. Soft and deliberate, over so quickly he barely let his eyes fall closed before he looked up to check Enjolras’ expression.

Enjolras opened his eyes half a second after Grantaire did, looking down immediately at his lips again. Grantaire smiled. “See?” he murmured, leaning in once more. “It’s easy.” Perhaps this would cure him of his desire – he usually felt sated after being with someone he was attracted to, and found it easy not to think of them again. He ignored the suspicion that things would be different this time.

Enjolras drew the next kiss out, pressing forward when Grantaire might have drawn back. Grantaire felt fingers flutter at his waist and caught them with his free hand, breaking away to breathe as he pressed Enjolras’ hand onto his hip, telling him without words that the touch was welcome. Enjolras breathed out and kissed him again, lips parting just a little.

It was easy, just as Grantaire had promised. Enjolras wasn’t overeager or sloppy. He was careful, measured, like he wanted to commit every second to memory. Grantaire slid the hand on his shoulder up to his jaw and marvelled at the way it made Enjolras wrap both his arms properly around Grantaire’s waist and pull him in. The bloom of heat in the pit of his stomach at that was unexpected, and he opened his mouth and began to kiss Enjolras in earnest.

He’d expected things to speed up, but Enjolras slowed down, drinking him in, every break between kisses leaving Grantaire a little more dizzied, a little more wanting. Their mouths together were hot and wet, Enjolras’ arms as tight as Grantaire’s were gentle. For all that he was supposed to be the experienced one, Grantaire felt as though he was seventeen again, being shown what a kiss could do by someone who knew exactly what they wanted and had no qualms about taking it. Enjolras kissed him like he was something delicious, drinking deeper and deeper each time. All Grantaire had to do was let him.

“You’re sure you’ve not done this before?” he managed to ask the next time they broke apart, Enjolras’ eyes dark on his.

“Are you serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

Enjolras drew back, starting to smile. “Maybe not. Does that mean I was…”

“Good, yes.” Criminally so. And Grantaire had no time to say more before Enjolras was kissing him again. Grantaire couldn’t remember the last time anyone had kissed him for so long without moving things on, content just to kiss and touch like this, their hands hardly moving, bodies still. It was an exercise in the most pleasurable form of torture, to hold back and concentrate only on the present instead of exploring further sensations.

So Grantaire resisted the urge to kiss Enjolras’ neck or slide his hands any lower than his waist. It wasn’t actually that hard when Enjolras kept bringing his attention back to their mouths, the gentle sounds, the startling, delicious first press of teeth.

Enjolras’ arms tightened for a second when Grantaire bit back, and Grantaire couldn’t help wondering what he would feel if he were to arch forward and press their bodies together a little firmer, closing the gap between their hips. Was Enjolras enjoying this as much as he was? His kisses indicated strongly in the positive.

However much he felt that he could do this all night, Grantaire had to eventually slow things down. It was either that or move forward, and he’d had too much wine for that. So he shortened the length of their kisses until they were just breathing against each other’s lips, arms loose around each other’s bodies.

“We could go to my room?” Enjolras suggested, barely audible.

Grantaire had to take a fortifying breath before he shook his head. “Tomorrow. If you still want to.”

“Do you think I don’t want to now?” Enjolras drew back to look at him, challenge in his eyes and the tilt of his jaw. “Do you not want to?” he added, a frown softening the effect.

Grantaire had to laugh, disbelieving. “I’m not a saint. It’s…if you still want to tomorrow, then I will. We’ve been drinking,” he tried to explain. “I wouldn’t want to make a mess of things.”

“Why would you?”

“Oh, no one’s their sharpest after a bottle of wine.” And he’d made more mistakes after drinking than he had fingers and toes, and he didn’t want to be a drunken mistake of anybody else’s, especially not Enjolras’.

“I suppose.” Enjolras seemed to undergo some sort of intense internal conversation before he let go of Grantaire and stepped away. “It feels strange to schedule it.”

“Then let’s just say we’ll eat together tomorrow and see what happens.” Grantaire made a conscious effort not to fidget or hold onto his own arms or something equally foolish. He’d only been holding Enjolras a little while, there was no reason to be stricken with loss or anything ridiculous like that.

“Alright.” Enjolras didn’t move though. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

Grantaire blinked, stung. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

“It’s not that I’m ashamed.” Enjolras closed his eyes for a moment and appeared to force the frown from his face before looking back at Grantaire. “I’m not saying I don’t trust you or anything like that. I’m just…private. I want this to be private.”

He didn’t want to be teased, more like. The thought of that brought a smile to Grantaire’s lips, and that seemed to make Enjolras relax before he even spoke. “It’s fine, I get it. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thank you. Goodnight, I suppose,” Enjolras added softly, and before Grantaire could reply, he turned and slipped out.

Which left Grantaire alone with half a bottle of wine and two nearly-full cups. His conscience prevented him drinking it all, but he did finish his own cup. He poured the contents of Enjolras’ back into the bottle over the sink, and left it on the side since he couldn’t remember which cupboard it had come from.

“Steady,” he muttered to himself as he took the lamp to his bedroom. Had he had enough to help him sleep? His limbs felt deliciously heavy, his eyelids drooping, so he blew out the lamp and stripped to his underwear.

Just across the hall, was Enjolras asleep already? Or was he awake as well, touching his lips like Grantaire was, imagining what they might have done tonight, what they might do tomorrow. If Grantaire held his nerve, that was. But how could he fail to? In Enjolras’ presence, his uncertainty resolved itself, his gaze sharpened, his confidence bloomed. He’d only experienced that before with the band, and that only after a long time. Everything with Enjolras happened so fast.

He hadn’t told Bossuet about his father for months, hadn’t told him and Musichetta about the cellar for years for fear they’d ridicule him. But he’d told Enjolras those things practically within hours of meeting him. Why?

Maybe Enjolras was enchanted. Grantaire certainly felt bewitched.

 

“There won’t be work today,” Enjolras told him over breakfast.

“Mmm?” Grantaire could barely open his eyes. Wine or not, the nightmares came – he just remembered fewer details. “What?”

“The work, on the new house,” Enjolras repeated. “It won’t be happening today, not in this.”

‘This’, Grantaire supposed, meant the rain that had been pouring down steadily since the early hours of the morning. The heavens had truly opened, and the weight of the drops on the roof and windows was so loud that they had to raise their voices slightly to be heard. “Oh. Are you still working?”

“Yes.” Enjolras cast a regretful look at the door. “I’ll run to the hall, I suppose. You’ll go to Feuilly’s?”

“Yeah. Meet the others there.” Grantaire sighed. “We’ll both be wet for hours after getting to our respective destinations.”

“Feuilly’s got a fire he’ll light for you,” Enjolras said. “And I’ve got a stove. We’ll be fine. And you’ll come back for supper?” he added, a little uncertain.

Grantaire was nodding before the question had even penetrated the fog clouding his brain. “Of course,” he said, just wanting to put Enjolras at ease.

It worked – he smiled. “Good.” He got up, and Grantaire watched in a sort of daze as he cleaned away his breakfast things, wrapped himself up in a thick hooded cloak, and left with a, “See you later.”

Over the course of the next minute or two, the realisation dawned that no one would be the wiser if he went back to bed, and Grantaire left his empty bowl on the table and did just that. His nightmares only came at night, it seemed, and when he next woke, he could tell even with the oppressive cloud cover that it was past noon.

“Where’ve you been?” Musichetta demanded when he finally stumbled into the tavern, soaked and shivering. “God, get in front of the fire.” She vacated her chair, and Grantaire fell into it gratefully.

“Slept in,” he said, pulling his jacket off and draping it over the grate in front of the fire to either dry out or catch alight, whichever came first.

“Bossuet’s already singed his collar doing that,” Marius told him dryly, nudging the grate away from the flames with his foot. “That was a long sleep.”

Bossuet frowned, catching on faster. “You’ve still been having nightmares?”

There was no point in lying, so Grantaire nodded. “Every night. Even when I drink myself to sleep, they come.”

“The same ones?”

“All sorts. You’ve been in a few of them.”

“Do I want to know what happened to us?” Musichetta asked, dragging her chair closer with a doubtful look.

Grantaire shook his head. “Probably not.” They were all variations on the same two themes, in any case – either they were trapped in some hideous scenario where they all ended up dead or hurt (usually because of something Grantaire had done), or they turned on him and became cruel parodies of the people they really were.

“It’s the house upping its game, I expect,” she muttered, scowling. Of all of them, she’d been the most accepting of Grantaire’s conviction that there was something unearthly in his old house. “It knows you’re working against it, and it’s trying to break you before you succeed. Humans need sleep to survive, you know. They go mad without it.”

“Don’t tell him that,” Bossuet said, aghast, but Grantaire waved a hand.

“It’s alright. If I can catch a few hours in the day, it’s fine. The nightmares don’t come while the sun’s out – so far, at least.”

“Don’t tempt fate,” Musichetta warned. “You’re not going near the old house, are you?”

“You couldn’t pay me,” Grantaire snorted. “I stay right away from there, and the woods around it for good measure.”

“Good.” She turned to smile at Feuilly as he came over to put down an extra cup on their table, and filled it from the cider bottle they’d already opened. “Here.” She passed it to Grantaire. “Don’t stop fighting. We’ll be away before winter, and you’ll never have to cross the Saiz again. You should have come with us when we left,” she added, narrow-eyed. “You’ll get sick if you stay here.”

“You know, do you?” Grantaire mustered up a smile, and she returned it, wider.

“I know. People who rub up close to disease, catch diseases.”

“You sound like Joly,” Bossuet said, amused, and she nudged him.

“Hardly a bad thing. He’s an educated doctor – what’re you? Some poor man’s minstrel?”

Grantaire sipped his cider and smiled. He’d missed the backdrop of their affectionate bickering. Even hearing them mention Joly didn’t chill him the way he’d expected. He couldn’t hold his peace forever though, and after the next time Feuilly loaded up the fire, Grantaire cleared his throat and used the cover of cracking logs to say, “I went to see Joly’s father a few days ago.”

That had their attention, especially Bossuet and Musichetta’s. “Why?”

“Joly told me he wanted to see me.”

“Is this something to do with why you didn’t like him?” Marius asked quietly, and Grantaire grimaced.

“He knew, when I lived here. What my father was doing. He found out by accident, but he never did anything.” It sounded different than it had when he’d told Enjolras. He’d been bitter then – now he just wanted to make sure Feuilly wouldn’t overhear. “He wanted to apologise.”

Musichetta closed her mouth, which had been gaping open. “Apologise for what, exactly?”

That was important, and Grantaire nodded to acknowledge it. “For failing me, he said. He said I denied anything was wrong, but he knew something was.”

There was a long silence as they absorbed that. Marius was the one to speak first. “Do you remember it like that?”

“No. But I don’t remember much.” An understatement if ever there was one. Even staying so long had only triggered a few memories, most of them unpleasant and dredged up in nightmares. He still couldn’t have named any of the children in his classes at school, or said at which table he’d sat. He could barely remember being in the schoolhouse at all, only finding misty recollections of humiliation and fear as he struggled over his lessons, knowing his failures would bring punishment at home.

What had his teachers been like? Lost. Had his father ever spoken to Michaud? Lost. How many times had he accompanied his father into the woods to assist in his work? Lost. It was all like a dream. He only remembered seeing Doctor Amiot because of the beating afterwards, and the way the sickness had left him weak for weeks.

“I ran out,” he muttered. “He said he didn’t want me to forgive him.”

“Some things are unforgiveable,” Marius said.

“But there’s healing in forgiveness,” Bossuet frowned, troubled further when Musichetta shook her head.

“Not always. There are people I’ll never forgive.”

Grantaire sipped his cider. “It’s done now,” he said, almost to himself. “It’s been history for years.”

“If you don’t want us to stay with Joly anymore,” Bossuet whispered, “we’d understand.”

“No!” Grantaire stared at him, surprised. “You like Joly. Besides, he never did anything.”

Musichetta nodded in agreement, but gave him a small smile all the same.

They passed the rest of the day with games and stories, Feuilly joining in whenever he could, and Grantaire left having drunk the minimum he could get away with, his empty stomach fluttering. Having told the others about seeing Joly’s father seemed to have made room in him for anticipation, though whenever he tried to think a little clearer about what he was doing with Enjolras, his mind seemed to shy away. The only things he could grasp was that he wanted this, and Enjolras wanted it, and if they both wanted to go ahead there was no reason why they shouldn’t. They were grown men, after all. Even if Enjolras had never done anything beyond kissing.

The rain hadn’t let up all day, and the mud was already so thick that Grantaire had to walk back to Enjolras’ or risk a fall. As a result, he was soaked to the skin when he got inside, greeted by a wave of heat and the smell of roasting potatoes.

“You’ll have to change,” Enjolras said sympathetically, looking over his shoulder at him. “I had to when I came in as well.”

“I’ll try not to make too much of a mess,” Grantaire sighed, toeing off his muddy boots and hanging up his jacket. He peeled off his socks as well, and padded to the spare room on tiptoes.

“Hang your wet things up in the parlour!” Enjolras called. “I’ve put a rack out.”

Grantaire had no idea what that meant until he’d changed and gone to obey, finding an odd contraption of wood and wire stood out in front of the fire. Enjolras had already hung his things along the wires, and Grantaire did the same, arranging them carefully.

For a moment, he stayed where he was, staring without seeing at the wet clothes. They were going to have dinner. Potatoes, by the look of it, probably with something else he hadn’t seen. They would eat, and then…what? Go straight to bed? Maybe waiting to be sober hadn’t been the smartest way to do this.

What if Enjolras didn’t like it? What if he did something wrong and put Enjolras off for life? What if one of them laughed at the wrong time or made horrible faces or they just didn’t click in bed?

“Shut up,” Grantaire muttered, giving himself a shake. What was he, seventeen again? It was only sex. It was always odd noises and occasionally awkward faces. There was always a bit where one of the participants had to pause to rearrange something or another. It was embarrassing, sure, but he’d done it dozens of times before. That was why Enjolras had asked him to do it.

He just had to be confident, that was all.

The first thing he did when he went back into the kitchen was look around for last night’s bottle of wine. Tragically, it had been stowed away. “Anything I can help with?” he asked, trying not to sound too nervous.

“Not really. The wine’s in that cupboard though, if you want some.”

“Thanks.” He definitely sounded too relieved, too everything, but he’d never been any good at hiding parts of himself. He got two cups out and filled them, wondering if Enjolras had a second or maybe third bottle stashed somewhere. Glancing at Enjolras’ upright figure over the stove as he stirred a pot of something, he thought it unlikely.

Supper, it turned out, was roast potatoes with boiled beans, gravy, and a very good bread which they took turns cutting slices off until they’d finished the whole loaf. While they ate, Grantaire told Enjolras what the others had told him about playing in Marçan and the other nearby towns and villages.

“I didn’t realise you go could go through places so quickly,” Enjolras remarked as they cleared up together.

Grantaire shrugged a shoulder, amused. “Most places don’t want the same entertainment two nights in a row. We’ll hit every tavern we can, play in the streets during the day, and try to play at any market we find. Markets are always good – children love a bit of music.”

He reached past Enjolras to put their dried bowls back in their cupboard, and jumped when Enjolras’ hand came to rest on his lower back, sliding around to his waist when Grantaire turned to look at him in surprise.

Enjolras smiled very slightly, and before Grantaire could figure out whether he was nervous or confident, Enjolras was kissing him and it didn’t much matter. Their lips parted at once this time, almost in tandem, and Grantaire came to his senses enough to cup Enjolras’ jaw with one hand and hold onto his arm with the other, humming softly as Enjolras’ tongue slid against his.

“Mm?” Enjolras drew back, eyebrows pinched, and Grantaire laughed.

“Nothing. Come here.” How had he forgotten in the space of less than a day how easy this was? And this time, he wasn’t drunk or in shock or worried about accidentally pushing Enjolras into a mistake he’d regret. Enjolras had kissed him – he couldn’t have been much clearer about what he wanted.

But he still didn’t know what to do. Beyond kissing, it seemed, Enjolras hit something of a brick wall. His arms were around Grantaire’s waist in the same position they’d been last night, and only now did it occur to Grantaire that such stillness was a little unnatural, maybe contrived. Was Enjolras imitating something he’d seen someone else do? Was this how his parents kissed, holding each other gently like this?

Well, Grantaire had no children to worry about scandalising. He turned, pulling Enjolras with him, and moved both of them until Enjolras was pressed against the wall, the cold barrier of it making Enjolras gasp, their lips parting with a wet sound.

“Tell me if you don’t like anything,” Grantaire said firmly into the whisper of space between them. “Or just stop, and I’ll stop too. Alright?”

“Will you do the same, if I do something you don’t like?”

“Sure. I doubt you’ll do anything I won’t like though, unless you’re planning to knock me down and steal my worldly goods.” He grinned, a tightness in his chest easing when Enjolras laughed.

“All you own is a fiddle, and what would I do with that? I certainly couldn’t play it.”

“You could sell it. The strings alone are worth a fortune.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. Not many people make instruments so fine in these parts.” Grantaire pressed Enjolras harder against the wall and stroked the tip of his thumb along his jaw before nudging Enjolras’ chin up with his nose and kissing the swell of his adam’s apple. Enjolras’ grip on him tightened, fingers spreading into the material of his shirt, and Grantaire did it again, opening his mouth against hot skin to encourage another reaction.

“Well.” Enjolras swallowed, throat moving under Grantaire’s lips. “I’d have to go to Marçan to sell it, wouldn’t I? I don’t think you’d let me get far.”

“Certainly not. And I’ve got the added benefit of knowing where you live – while you tried to rob me, I could rob you right back.” Grantaire moved down, leaving three open-mouthed kisses on Enjolras’ neck before he met the fabric of his collar. Enjolras hardly ever did up the topmost buttons of his shirts though, so it was easy to push the shirt open and keep going till he reached the line of his collarbone. Enjolras was aflame, the skin of his chest scorching Grantaire’s face, burning his lips. It was a far from unwelcome sensation.

“What…” Enjolras trailed off, and made no attempt to speak again when Grantaire raised his head to look at him in askance. It fell to Grantaire to fill the silence, then.

“Have you thought about doing this before?” he asked, kissing the corner of Enjolras’ mouth and curling a hand round the side of his neck.

“What? Doing…well.” Enjolras cleared his throat and loosened the vice-like grip he now had around Grantaire’s waist, sliding one hand very slowly up between his shoulder blades. “Not really. Not in detail.”

“You’re serious?” Grantaire kissed the join of his ear and jaw, grinning at the surprised little sound Enjolras gave in response. “Not even in Marçan?”

“I didn’t know what to imagine.” Enjolras drew a breath, then leaned forward and down to kiss Grantaire’s neck, just below his jaw. Grantaire lifted his chin up in encouragement, smiling.

“You’ve imagined kissing?”

“Yes.”

“Must be why you’re so good at it.”

Enjolras snorted, and Grantaire grinned, letting his eyes fall closed and his breathing deepen as Enjolras pressed gentle kisses down his neck, imitating the path Grantaire had followed on his own. Grantaire’s top buttons were done up further than Enjolras’, but he didn’t hesitate long, going back to the curve of Grantaire’s jaw and finding his ear, fingers digging into Grantaire’s back when the gust of his breath made Grantaire shudder.

“I like that,” Grantaire made himself say, when Enjolras paused. “It’s good, don’t stop.”

Enjolras kissed the soft skin just in front of his ear, and Grantaire pressed forward so he could feel just how much he liked it. The movement made Enjolras’ breath jump, and then his teeth closed very carefully on Grantaire’s earlobe. Most times, people didn’t bother with this. Grantaire’s usual encounters were quick, bordering on perfunctory. He couldn’t remember ever taking his time like this, concentrating on each individual sensation before moving onto the next, focusing as much on his partner’s pleasure as his own, if not more.

Enjolras’ breathing was loud, his teeth sharp, and Grantaire swallowed a breathless, embarrassing sound as Enjolras’ tongue flicked out, teasing. “Why do you like this?” Enjolras whispered. From someone else, it might have been amused, maybe accompanied by a smirk. Enjolras only sounded fascinated, curious, like Grantaire’s reactions were genuinely something of note.

Grantaire had to swallow again before he could answer. “I don’t know.” Absurd how on edge he was already, just from kissing and the closeness of their bodies. “I just do.”

“How did you find out you did?” Enjolras sucked his earlobe, the heat of his lips making Grantaire swear.

“ _Fuck_. Oh…I don’t know, I don’t remember.”

“Would I like it?”

“Won’t know till you try.”

“Try then.” Enjolras pulled away (Grantaire sighed) and turned his head, giving Grantaire an expectant look.

“It’s better with build-up, I find.” Grantaire took a breath and touched Enjolras’ cheek, turning him to face forward again. “Here.” They kissed, messier than before. Grantaire could feel Enjolras’ cock against his leg, as hard as his own, but resisted the urge to rock forward. One thing at a time – he didn’t want to put Enjolras under any sort of pressure.

When Grantaire moved his lips from Enjolras’ mouth to his neck, this time he was less gentle. Suction caused Enjolras to gasp, teeth made him twitch, and when Grantaire breathed against his ear, he shivered. Application of tongue, however, made him jump. “Ah!”

“It tickles?” Grantaire guessed, not bothering to suppress a grin. Enjolras wrinkled his nose.

“Sort of. Sorry.”

“Why? Different things feel good for different people – we don’t all like the same foods, right? Same principle. Oh, speaking of.” He made a face of his own. “Um, just a warning? I don’t like hands on the back of my neck. It’s a bit strange, but…”

“It’s fine.” Enjolras looked bemused, but not offended or anything similar. “Different things, like you said.”

“Exactly.” Pity it was such a mood-killer. Grantaire kissed Enjolras’ jaw again, trying to get them back on track. “You can touch me anywhere else.”

Enjolras frowned, the tilt of his eyebrows almost worried. It became concentration as Grantaire watched, and as Enjolras slid one of his arms out from under Grantaire’s and lifted it to Grantaire’s head, pushing his fingers into his hair. “Here?” he asked, cautious.

Grantaire smiled. “That’s good, yeah, as long as you don’t pull.”

“I won’t.” So serious, as though Grantaire was trusting him with something of great consequence. And true to his word, Enjolras’ fingers were gentle, careful not to so much as tug on a tangle. It was soothing, like when Musichetta played with his hair, though she only ever did it just after he’d given it a wash. Enjolras didn’t seem to mind the grease though – perhaps all the rain earlier had washed it enough.

Grantaire leaned in to kiss him again, slow this time, and after a minute dipped his head to kiss the hollow between Enjolras’ collarbones, needing to hide his face for a moment because Enjolras had slid his other hand into Grantaire’s hair and was still being so gentle, so soft it made something in Grantaire’s chest ache.

He almost asked if they could move to the bedroom, had his mouth open and the words on his tongue, but then he reminded himself – this had to go at Enjolras’ pace, not his. He could endure this – it was hardly unpleasant. Quite the reverse.

What could he do? He couldn’t stay motionless like this, like some sort of touch-drunk fool. So he dragged both hands down Enjolras’ sides to his hips and pushed him back against the wall, arching against him in some half-conscious attempt to be closer than he already was. The press of their cocks in the tight space between them made Enjolras breathe out harshly, and he dropped one of his hands to the small of Grantaire’s back to hold him in place, holding him still as he thrust forward.

Sparks flew behind Grantaire’s eyes, in the pit of his stomach – maybe he should try and draw all his encounters out, if it made something as little as this feel so good – and he moved in imitation on pure instinct, the two of them slowly finding a rhythm. Enjolras groaned, the hand in Grantaire’s hand sliding down his face to pull him up into a painful kiss, their teeth knocking and making them both curse.

“Sorry,” Enjolras breathed, mortified, and Grantaire laughed, brushing their lips together.

“Happens to everyone, don’t worry.” A deep kiss, and a noise of dissent from Enjolras, who broke away to protest.

“I didn’t want it to happen with you.”

“It’s fine, forget about it.” Fuck, when had dry humping ever felt so good? He kissed Enjolras again, again, again, and grinned in something like relief when Enjolras finally moved his hand from Grantaire’s back to his ass, not yet daring to squeeze. “You’re perfect,” he muttered between their next two kisses. “You’re wonderful.”

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Enjolras whispered. “What do you want?”

“Me?” That gave Grantaire pause, and he leaned back a fraction to look Enjolras in the eye, showing him how earnest he was. “I want this to be good for you.” Their thrusting slowed, that pinch appearing between Enjolras’ eyes. For once, Grantaire was able to follow through on his desire to kiss it, delighted when it had the effect of erasing it for a second.

“What if I want it to be good for you as well?” Enjolras asked, brows drawn together again.

“What makes you think it won’t be?”

“Because I don’t want you to just…to only concentrate on me.”

It was such a typically Enjolras concern that Grantaire could have laughed. “How about this – what do you think would make me feel good?” By the almost panicked look on Enjolras face, he knew at once he’d teased too much. “Or I could tell you?” he suggested instead, stomach unravelling when Enjolras nodded, relieved.

“Yes, please.”

“Alright.” Well this was going to be a tricky line to walk and no mistake. Grantaire swallowed. “Alright. Well…I like, um.” His mind was completely blank, empty of all options. Luckily for him, Enjolras wasn’t so slow.

“You like this,” he said, pushing his hand back into Grantaire’s hair and leaning in to kiss his ear, humming in what might have been satisfaction when Grantaire swayed against him, eyes closing of their own account.

“Quick study,” he mumbled. “Good memory.”

“Thank you.” That terrible, devious tongue flicked against the shell of his ear, and Grantaire shuddered. “What else?”

What else? All he could think of was Enjolras fucking him, as gentle as he was being now. Just imagining it was enough to make Grantaire blush. Picturing Enjolras above him, kissing him as they moved together, holding him, smiling at him, it was making his heart thud harder than it should against his ribs.

“Fuck,” he breathed, rocking slowly against Enjolras. “Fuck, I can’t think when you’re doing that.”

“Shame.” At least it sounded like Enjolras was smiling. “Maybe…if you want, we could sit down? Or…”

“Or lie down?” Grantaire blinked to clear his head, leaning back to smile crookedly. Enjolras’ face was as pink as his own felt, so that was something.

“Yes.”

“In your room? That’s what you said yesterday, isn’t it?”

“You want to now?”

“I wanted to yesterday.”

Enjolras’ lips twitched. “Then…?”

Grantaire nodded, and with an effort he peeled himself away from Enjolras’ front, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to pull his hand from Enjolras’ waist. Enjolras caught it with his own and slotted their fingers together, towing Grantaire out of the kitchen with what could only be impatience and grabbing the lamp on the side as he went. Grantaire almost stumbled in the doorway, his body completely out of whack. All his blood was between his legs, his head was spinning, and his palms were beginning to sweat.

He wanted Enjolras to fuck him so badly it was leaving his knees weak at the thought. But he hadn’t prepared himself at all, not thinking they’d go so far, a part of him shying from the intimacy of it. Further thought on the matter was interrupted by Enjolras kissing him again, clutching his hand tightly before releasing it and stepping away to put the lamp on a chest of drawers, looking uncertain.

“Should we…” He touched his shirt collar, and Grantaire could have fainted with relief.

“Let me.”

Determined not to be left behind, Enjolras set to work on Grantaire’s shirt as well, tearing his attention between them. How could he concentrate on the smoothness of Enjolras’ chest when Enjolras’ fingers were brushing against the hair on his own? His fingers fumbled, clumsy, and Enjolras finished his task first. When he slid his hands around Grantaire’s middle, it made Grantaire shiver, and shiver again when Enjolras ran his palm from Grantaire’s neck to his stomach.

“Are you cold?”

“Sensitive.” Grantaire took a breath and finished opening Enjolras’ shirt. “See how it feels for you.” He copied what Enjolras had done as exactly as he could, grinning when Enjolras smiled and closed his eyes.

“It feels good.”

“Good.” If Enjolras couldn’t fuck him, there was another option that was fast becoming appealing. One thing at a time though, Grantaire reminded himself. One thing at a time. So he pushed Enjolras’ shirt off his shoulders and ran his hands down his arms, helping him out of the sleeves. Enjolras barely let him savour it before pulling Grantaire’s shirt away as well, and then ducking his head to Grantaire’s bare shoulder, bringing their chests flush in the process.

Enjolras was so warm, so hot he felt almost fevered. Grantaire pressed the side of his face into blonde hair and breathed in, sliding his hands up Enjolras’ back as Enjolras kissed his shoulder again. A hand moved slowly up his spine, and Enjolras paused, fingers brushing over what Grantaire knew had to be scar tissue, since he couldn’t feel it properly.

“They’re old scars,” he murmured, kissing Enjolras’ jaw. “Don’t mind them. Enjolras.” He drew back when Enjolras didn’t keep going. “It’s fine, I don’t even feel them.”

Enjolras scowled, but before Grantaire could do more than open his mouth to ask why, he was being kissed so fiercely he completely forgot his question. He couldn’t get the breath to speak, could hardly string a thought together, every available space in his mind taken up with registering sensations. Enjolras’ mouth, his tongue, the heat of their faces so close, his bare skin against Grantaire’s in…so many places now, now that he was moving his hands, his arms, holding Grantaire closer.

“Fuck,” he managed to gasp, maybe a minute or several later (time seemed to have become slightly subjective).

“Could we?” Enjolras barely paused, just moved his kisses to Grantaire’s jaw so he could reply.

“I…mm, we…it sort of…depends…”

“On what?”

God, he was a force of nature. Grantaire looked up at the ceiling and tried to breathe a little steadier, a task not made easy by Enjolras’ lips against his throat. “It takes…preparation, with men, you can’t just…it’s easier if you prepare a bit.”

“Why didn’t you say before?” Enjolras drew back to frown at him, so accusatory that Grantaire had to laugh, breathless.

“Walk before you can run, you know? There’s plenty more we can do.”

“Like?”

“Hands and mouths are better than anything else, sometimes.”

“Yes, but what do we do with them?” Enjolras frowned harder, and Grantaire pulled him down for another kiss.

“Whatever feels good,” he murmured, already knowing that it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy experience-hungry Enjolras. “You must’ve heard how a mouth can be put to use…” He leaned back and looked down significantly between their bodies, glancing back up in time to see Enjolras’ cheeks bloom red.

“I…yes.”

“Well then, there’s one thing. I imagine you’re no stranger to your own hand.”

If anything, Enjolras blushed even darker. “Grantaire.”

“I’m certainly not. A stranger to my own, I mean.” Grantaire grinned and pecked Enjolras’ lips, dancing his fingers up the middle of his spine. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know.” Enjolras licked his lips, then bit them. “Can we sit?”

“Certainly.” Grantaire stepped around Enjolras and sat on the edge of his bed (made, of course, and a fair bit wider than Grantaire’s), pleasure jumping in his stomach when Enjolras didn’t sit next to him, as he’d expected, but straddled his legs instead.

“I don’t know,” Enjolras muttered again, brushing a kiss against Grantaire’s lips. “I want to…I want to know what to do. I want to have already done this so this could be good.” He started moving his hands again, running his palms down Grantaire’s arms, stroking up and down his back. “I don’t want to feel a fool.”

Grantaire closed his eyes to muddle through what Enjolras meant. “You want to have some experience already so you won’t make a fool of yourself tonight?” he tried.

“Yes.”

“Mm.” Grantaire kissed Enjolras’ chest, sliding one hand up his back to the base of his neck. The first person he’d gone to bed with semi-sober had been a woman, and he vaguely remembered obsessively touching her the way Enjolras was touching him. Pressing his hands to her skin just to affirm that he could, that he was allowed, that it was happening. He wished she’d touched him more in return, so he wrapped an arm around Enjolras’ waist and brought him closer. “We could try pretending something?” he suggested hesitantly.

“What do you mean?”

“If I’d never left.” Grantaire had to swallow to keep speaking, more nervous now than he had been all day, it felt like. “If…if this was the first for both of us.”

He was sure Enjolras would react with annoyance or confusion, so sure he was already hiding a wince of embarrassment when Enjolras said, “We’d be younger. And we definitely wouldn’t have this much privacy.”

It was so matter-of-fact that it startled Grantaire into a laugh, one that Enjolras leaned back to see, probably checking that he wasn’t being teased. “You’re right,” Grantaire smiled up at him. “Where do people go? The woods?”

“Mostly.” Enjolras’ roving hands slid down his chest, spread against his sides only just firmly enough not to be ticklish. “You’re older than me, you might already have…and you like women as well.”

Grantaire shook his head. “Far too shy for any of that. I can’t flirt unless I’ve been drinking. I’d be…I am, I’m amazed you’re even interested in me.”

“But I am.” Enjolras touched Grantaire’s chin, tipping it up for a kiss. “If it’s your first time,” he murmured, fingers soft against Grantaire’s face, “what do you do?”

“Whatever feels good.” Grantaire turned his head to kiss Enjolras’ palm, lifting a hand of his own to hold it in place. He could feel Enjolras’ eyes on him, and he looked back as he moved his hand to push Enjolras’ index finger into his mouth. Enjolras’ lips parted, breath quickening, and Grantaire sucked his finger deeper, deeper, then back to take his middle finger as well. That made Enjolras’ next exhale rush out, his free fingers flexing against Grantaire’s chin.

“How would you know to do that,” he whispered, “if it’s your first time?”

It was a tragedy that Grantaire had to slip Enjolras’ fingers from his mouth to reply. “I’d guess. I’d experiment. Different things for different people,” he reminded Enjolras in a whisper. “I don’t know if you’ll like something till I try.”

“And that goes both ways.” It wasn’t quite a question, but Grantaire nodded anyway.

“It’s my first time.” Saying it made it more real. “I don’t know what I’ll like. I can guess some stuff though,” he added, lips quirking. “Some things are pretty universal.”

“Like this.” Enjolras rocked his hips forward, and Grantaire inhaled sharply.

“Like that,” he agreed.

“If we were both novices,” Enjolras muttered, sliding back to undo the buttons on his trousers, “and you were shyer, I’d’ve taken you to the woods. Even if you are older.”

It took Grantaire a second to reply, eyes fixed on the way Enjolras’ fingers moved. “I wouldn’t be able to believe my luck.”

“Would you be shy?” Enjolras pushed his trousers down, and Grantaire tried and failed to look away from his cock and the dark blonde hair around it.

“I’d be petrified,” he muttered, forcing his eyes back up to meet Enjolras’. Saying it was making it real, making him more nervous than he had been before.

“Why?”

“Lots of reasons.” He needed to get a grip – this wasn’t really his first time, for goodness sakes. He lifted his hands to Enjolras’ hips and pressed his thumbs in, then his fingers, pulling Enjolras forward. He kept one hand where it was and stroked the back of the other down Enjolras’ belly, watching the way it made his skin jump, his cock twitch. He’d done this before, he didn’t need to be nervous. It was easy to skim his hand lower and wrap it around Enjolras, then start to stroke very slowly.

Enjolras’ breathing went shallow, and when Grantaire glanced up to check his expression, he gazed back with parted lips and dark eyes. “Reasons like what?” he murmured. Grantaire tightened his grip just to see how Enjolras would react, heat spreading through his skin when Enjolras’ eyes fell shut for a moment to absorb the feeling.

“I wouldn’t want to screw it up. I’d want it to be good, I’d want you to want more.”

“That’s what I want,” Enjolras muttered. “Are you just…saying my words back to me?”

“Maybe everyone worries about the same things.” Grantaire pulled him a little closer so he could kiss his chest. Enjolras let out a long breath and pushed a hand into Grantaire’s hair, holding him there, forehead against his sternum.

“What was your real first time like?” he asked softly.

“I don’t remember.” Grantaire hid his face against Enjolras’ chest, pressing his nose into the soft bulge there, keeping his hand on Enjolras’ cock just tight enough not to be maddening (he hoped). “I was too drunk.”

“Why?”

“Always why,” Grantaire murmured, sounding fonder than he would’ve liked. He leaned back and looked up at Enjolras to answer. “Because I was scared, and I wanted it so badly.”

“I don’t understand why you’d get drunk for something you want,” Enjolras frowned, fingers gentle in Grantaire’s hair.

“Because wanting things is…” Grantaire shrugged, not knowing how to explain. “It’s hard sometimes, I don’t know. Can I try something?”

Enjolras blinked. “Try what?”

Grantaire stroked him a little harder and smiled when Enjolras inhaled shakily. “My mouth. Here,” he added, when Enjolras’ only reaction was a frown of confusion. He tugged harder again, and Enjolras swallowed, then nodded.

“How…”

“Like this.” Grantaire guided him a step backwards with the hand on his hips, then slid gracelessly to the floor in front of him. He didn’t go straight for it, but pressed his mouth first to the sensitive skin below Enjolras’ belly, at the dip between hip and thigh.

Enjolras gasped, his hand going tight for just a second in Grantaire’s hair before he let go as if burned. “Sorry!”

“It’s fine.” Grantaire looked up at him (what a vantage point he had, what a view) and smiled, crooked. “You didn’t hurt me.” He nosed at that bit of skin again, wrapping an arm around the back of Enjolras’ thighs to steady him when he twitched. “It’s fine,” he murmured, kissing Enjolras’ hip. “You can put your hands back, don’t worry.”

“I don’t want to pull by accident,” Enjolras whispered, fingers brushing Grantaire’s hair.

“You’ll be fine.” Grantaire settled back on his heels and kissed Enjolras’ thigh, still stroking his cock. “Grab my shoulders if you need to squeeze something.” He leaned in and kissed the tip of Enjolras’ cock, eyes open to absorb everything he could. As he drew his hand back to the base and slid his mouth over the top, Enjolras’ breathing shook, one hand finding Grantaire’s shoulder and holding on tight while the other fluttered against his hair, still not brave enough to push in.

Grantaire hummed and breathed out, opening his mouth wider as he took more of Enjolras in, letting the movement push his lips backwards over his teeth. He usually preferred to receive rather than give blowjobs, but what better way to show Enjolras how good sex could feel? And something he hadn’t expected was how it was like an honour to give this to him, to lose himself in the sensation of offering pleasure without expecting anything in return. It was its own turn-on, doing this and hearing Enjolras’ shaking breaths, feeling every tremor in his legs. He could get drunk on this, he thought distantly, moving his mouth back and forth, slow and wet, plenty of tongue and saliva to ease the motion. He could do this for hours.

It was easy to decide whether to press his hand against his own cock to get a bit of relief or to explore the curves and planes of Enjolras’ legs and ass. He smoothed his palms down the backs of Enjolras’ thighs, steadied him with one hand on his ass while the fingers of his other stroked the delicate bones of his ankle. It must have looked strange, but Grantaire couldn’t think beyond wanting to touch, wanting to feel how much Enjolras was shaking.

Enjolras made a quiet, almost-moan sort of sound on his next exhale, and Grantaire closed his eyes, goosebumps breaking out over his bare shoulders and arms. Enjolras made the sound again, then squeezed Grantaire’s shoulder and whispered, “Wait, Grantaire…”

Grantaire drew back at once, curling his hand around Enjolras’ cock as he let it slip from his mouth. He looked up, mouth still slightly open, and Enjolras swallowed, legs locking. “Are you alright?” Grantaire asked. Enjolras nodded, staring down at him with an unreadable expression. “Do you…we can stop, if you want?”

“No,” Enjolras shook his head, expression shifting to alarm. “I don’t want to stop.”

“What do you want?” Grantaire trailed a hand down the back of Enjolras’ leg, sparking off a shiver.

“I want…” Enjolras frowned and pulled at Grantaire’s shoulder, encouraging him up and off his heels. “I want to see you,” he muttered, rushed. “Can you, is that –”

Grantaire nodded, both hands dropping to his belt, yanking it open faster than he would have believed possible. He had to stand to push them down past his knees, kicking them away when they were off. His eagerness was certainly worthy of their first-time pretending, but Enjolras didn’t seem to notice his embarrassment, just stepped forward and wrapped his hand around Grantaire’s cock with no preamble.

Grantaire had to grab his shoulder to stop himself overbalancing as he swayed forward into it, a startled, “ _Ah_ ,” escaping before he could think. Something about that certainly caught Enjolras’ attention, and Grantaire found himself being kissed again, deep and insistent, Enjolras’ free arm tight around his waist, the hand around his cock moving faster. It was treacherously good, and Grantaire was reacting on pure instinct, kissing back as hard as he was being kissed, pressing himself close and pushing a hand between them to take hold of Enjolras again.

It wasn’t what he’d expected though, and that eventually penetrated the fog of desire in his brain enough for him to draw back and gasp, “You want it like this?”

“Yes.” The reply was fierce, and when Grantaire moaned Enjolras stepped forward, pushing him back until his knees hit the bed and he sat back on it. Once again, Enjolras straddled him, barely breaking their kiss, and like this they didn’t have to think about keeping their balance, like this they could press their cocks together and thrust.

Only now did Grantaire think to pull his hand back and break away to spit into it, and the moment he returned it to their cocks Enjolras did the same. They both laughed, breathless, as they took turns spitting and spreading until they were both slick and wet, the lubrication making everything even better, even worse because now they threw all dignity to the wind. Everything now was about urging themselves and each other on, thrusting together in a rhythm fast becoming erratic and broken, their kisses getting messier, free hands holding tighter.

Enjolras’ thighs were like a vice around Grantaire’s hips, his hair tickling his face, and Grantaire couldn’t think, couldn’t think, hid his gasps in Enjolras’ mouth, against his lips, pressed desperately to the crook of his neck. Enjolras stilled for a second, then came suddenly with a sound of relief. The heat of his come on their hands made Grantaire shudder, still painfully close but not yet there, and when Enjolras nudged his hand aside and started pumping his cock he barely stopped himself crying out, especially when Enjolras _slowed down_.

“No,” he gasped against Enjolras’ throat, “Enjolras, come on, please, please –” Enjolras dipped his head to cut him off with a kiss, his hand obligingly speeding up again until Grantaire came, breaking away with a sobbing moan he would never normally have let himself get away with, pressing his forehead to Enjolras’ neck until the aftershocks had passed, leaving him weak and a little embarrassed.

“Like that,” Enjolras murmured. Grantaire pulled back to look at him, surprised to see him smiling down at the mess they’d made. “I wanted it like that.”

It took a moment for Grantaire to find and order words in his head. “Both of us together?”

“Mmm.” Enjolras’ rubbed his thumb over the slit of Grantaire’s cock, sending one last almost-painful spasm of pleasure through him.

“ _Ah_.”

Immediately, Enjolras’ eyes went wide, his hand pulling away. “Sorry, are you –”

“I’m fine.” Grantaire kissed him, feeling the way it made him relax. “I’m fine,” he repeated, punctuating it with another, small kiss. “It was good. Really good.”

“Really?”

He laughed – it was impossible not to. “Yes,” he grinned. “Trust me. I wish my first time had been as good.”

“I thought you didn’t remember it?”

“I don’t. But that’s hardly an indication of a good time.” Grantaire looked down at the mess. “We should –”

“Yes.” Enjolras slid off his lap, standing on slightly wobbling legs before he managed to lock his knees. “I should’ve heated some water up,” he muttered, frowning. Grantaire just shrugged, rising to his own feet.

“Don’t worry about it.”

They went to the kitchen for cold water instead, Grantaire trying to keep Enjolras’ mood light to stop him slipping into embarrassment. They cleaned themselves up, and in an awkward moment when Grantaire might have gone to bed, he nudged Enjolras’ shoulder and said, “You know, we can do more.”

Enjolras stared at him. “You want to?”

“If you do.”

Lines of tension Grantaire hadn’t even noticed Enjolras holding in his shoulders and neck relaxed, and the corner of his lips turned up. “I do if you do.”

Grantaire snorted, and granted rare courage by their shared nakedness, he leaned forward to kiss him. “How could I not?” he muttered, when they parted.

Enjolras shrugged, taking a step towards the hall, then leading on with confidence when Grantaire made to follow. “You might have wanted to only once.”

“What sense would that make? I’ve always heard it gets better the more you practice.”

“Surely that’s something you should know?” Enjolras turned to give him a curious look as they went back into his bedroom.

Grantaire shrugged. “I’ve never done this more than twice with anyone before. It’s different every time.”

“What do you normally do?” Enjolras stood at the foot of the bed, hesitating, and now, Grantaire was out of water as well.

“Well, um. It depends. Do you want to get in?” he asked, that courage still buoying him up. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting cold.”

“Yes,” Enjolras agreed, moving to the side of the bed quickly and getting under the covers. Grantaire did the same, sliding down to get as much of himself covered as possible. Lust and Enjolras’ body had been keeping him warm before, but he was on the edge of shivering now. Enjolras shuffled down to lie next to him, and looked for a second at his lips before he moved closer to kiss him.

While kissing, it was less awkward to press closer for warmth. It was natural for Grantaire to hitch one leg over Enjolras’ to pull him closer, instinctive to curve his back to make room between them for their arms. Enjolras curled his arm over Grantaire’s side and smiled, breaking the kiss now they were more comfortable. “What does it depend on?”

“What? Oh.” Grantaire’s brain took a moment to catch up. “Er, well, lots of things.”

“Like what?”

Typical Enjolras curiosity. Grantaire couldn’t bite back a flash of a smile, looking down for a moment. “What I want, what the other person wants, what we’re alright doing; that sort of thing.” He could tell that wasn’t enough to satisfy Enjolras, so he forced himself to continue. “Most often, it’s one of us fucking the other.”

“How do you decide?”

Grantaire shrugged, slightly uncomfortable. “Behaviour, mostly. Playing parts. More, um, forceful usually means someone wants to be the one doing the fucking.”

“Which are you?”

Fucking hell. With the lamp on the other side of the room, it was dark enough that hopefully Enjolras wouldn’t be able to see the blush Grantaire could feel growing in his face. “I don’t mind. Usually…not taking the lead, so to speak, but it’s…I don’t mind.”

Enjolras made a thoughtful sound. “Does that mean most people do take the lead?”

“I don’t know.” Grantaire made a face. “Honestly, I’ve just found it’s better to prepare for being fucked, just in case that’s how it goes. You can’t rely on someone else to’ve done the same. Unless you’re looking for a woman, of course,” he added.

“You have to prepare?” Enjolras asked uncertainly.

“It’d hurt like hell if you didn’t.”

“But only for men.”

“You…” Grantaire hesitated. “You know how men…”

“Yes!” Shit, if he could see Enjolras blushing in this poor light, Enjolras could definitely see him. “Yes,” Enjolras said again, not looking at him. “I know that. I just don’t know the…exact mechanics.”

“Right.” This was excruciating. “And…you want to know the mechanics.”

“If that’s not too much trouble,” Enjolras said dryly.

“Sorry.” Grantaire made a face and ducked his head to hide it a bit, shifting an inch closer in a bid to reassure himself that everything was alright. “I don’t usually talk about this sort of thing.”

“What? But what about…you said you’d slept with lots of people.”

“Sure, but I didn’t _talk_ with any of them.”

“Why?” Enjolras sounded so shocked that Grantaire had to laugh.

“Why would I?”

He looked up to see Enjolras frowning. “I thought that would be normal.”

“It might be for some people,” Grantaire said, hoping to reassure him a bit. “Just not for me.”

“Oh.” Enjolras sighed, moving his head until their foreheads were touching. “I couldn’t imagine not talking to someone if I was…doing this, with them,” he said slowly, still frowning a little. “That’s why it had to be you. I couldn’t do this with someone I didn’t like, or someone who didn’t know me.”

“You didn’t know anyone else in Marçan?” Grantaire asked, wondering if he did know Enjolras the way Enjolras apparently thought he did.

“But how could they know me without coming here?” Enjolras asked, disbelieving. “You know this place, you grew up here, you’ve met my parents and friends. You understand me better just by having done that.”

“You and I had very different experiences of growing up here,” Grantaire reminded him.

“You still know Carentan. It probably sounds ridiculous to you,” he murmured, “but I never wanted to do this with a stranger. I trust you.”

Grantaire had to take a second to absorb that, breathing it in and letting it settle. “It’s not ridiculous,” he said at last. “You’re in the majority there.”

“But you prefer strangers?”

Grantaire shrugged, awkward. “I’ve not got many options, in that respect. This is the longest time I’ve stayed in one place for about five years. There isn’t anyone I know I _could_ do this with.”

Enjolras bit back a smile. “There’s Marius.”

“Marius!” Grantaire laughed and pushed at Enjolras’ chest. “Now there’s a man who’s waiting for someone he knows and likes if ever I saw one. Marius will probably _marry_ first, for love, no doubt.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Enjolras grinned.

“Oh not at all, but it’s hardly compatible with my habits, is it?” Grantaire snorted. “ _Marius_ , indeed.”

After a pause, Enjolras resumed. “But you do like it, don’t you? With strangers, I mean.”

“I like the act well enough.” Was Enjolras passing judgement? Impossible to say. “Like I said, my options are limited. I’d rather have strangers than nothing at all.” It was worth the risk, he didn’t add. The relief of scratching that particular itch was worth the times when it went badly.

Enjolras was quiet, attention seeming to shift from talking to touching. The arm draped over Grantaire’s side moved, his hand tracing soft lines up and down Grantaire’s skin, palm fitting to the shape of his body as it skimmed from shoulder to thigh, side to arm. Grantaire couldn’t remember anyone ever touching him like that before, with no obvious goal in mind other than to enjoy the sensation.

He should reciprocate, but both his hands were tucked up by their chins. He had to shift slightly to free one enough to brush his fingertips down Enjolras’ chest.

“Tell me about preparation,” Enjolras said quietly. “How does it work? What do you use?”

Ah, the inevitable return of the questions. Grantaire smiled, eyes on his own fingers. “Oil, or something similar. The one I’ve got now is sort of solid when it’s not warm, which is better, I think. Means you don’t end up wasting so much.”

“And you…put it inside yourself?” Enjolras sounded about as uncomfortable asking as Grantaire felt about the prospect of answering.

“Basically.” Before his brain could catch up, he added, “I could show you.” Even as part of him disintegrated in panic, he could see at once that it had been the right thing to do by Enjolras’ smile.

“Could you?”

Grantaire nodded, shuffling backwards and out of the bed. “I’ll just get it.” He hurried, not just because it was freezing outside the covers (how had they been naked in this cold air just a short while earlier?). Being away from Enjolras meant what they were doing felt more fragile, more liable to collapse into embarrassment and silence.

He returned with the tin of oil, grinning when Enjolras pulled him closer with a grumble. “You were only out for a few seconds, how are you so cold already?”

“I’ll warm up,” Grantaire promised, holding the tin between them. “This is it.” It was a decent size, about the width of his palm, and he let Enjolras open it without protest.

“What’s it made of?”

“Water, mostly, and some sort of seed oil. I forget what, but it’s never caused me any trouble.”

Enjolras made a thoughtful noise, dipping a finger in to test the resistance. “It’s like…soft wax.”

“If you like.”

“And it means someone can…if you use it.” Enjolras was blushing again, but pushing on regardless. “They can…”

“Fuck you, yes.”

Enjolras considered the warming oil on his finger. “If I did, could you…?”

Holy hell. Grantaire shook his head, swallowing. “It’s more, um, something to work up to. It can hurt if you’re not ready.” The offer to let Enjolras fuck him was on the tip of his tongue, and perhaps half an hour ago he would have made it, but now he couldn’t bring himself to. Not like this, when they were huddled together in Enjolras’ bed, naked but just touching. “We could do something else though,” he offered, as much as for his sake as Enjolras’.

Enjolras nodded, scraping his finger against the edge of the tin to get the oil off and sliding the lid back on. “What do you like?”

“Me?”

Enjolras handed the tin back to him with an amused look. “Yes.”

Grantaire wanted to ask why he wanted to know, but he was trying to be a decent person here. And that meant letting Enjolras ask as many questions as he liked, and answering as honestly as he could bear to.

“Well,” he started, putting the tin above his head on the pillow to keep it out of the way. “Um.”

“It depends?” Enjolras guessed dryly. “You must know what you like.”

Grantaire huffed, curling a fraction closer. “Say the word ‘fuck’ and maybe I’ll relax a bit.”

Enjolras froze. “If I’m being too –”

“You’re fine, shit, I didn’t mean it like that.” On some instinct, Grantaire moved even closer and kissed Enjolras’ cheek. “I’m not used to talking about it, that’s all. Usually this is stuff I try to do with as little talking as possible.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be daft, what for?” Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I’m the one being an idiot.” He could do this, it was only words. “I like…I like being sucked off.” It sounded horrible out loud, but he forced himself to continue, face scorching. “And…I don’t know, not being treated like shit? I can’t really think of anything.” A lie, but he couldn’t bring himself to say that he liked it when the people he slept with were gentle. After all, that was what Enjolras had been so far, so it would have been superfluous to say so.

“What about things you don’t like?” Enjolras suggested. “Like your hair being pulled.”

“Um…” Strange, how this was easier. “I’m not keen on not being able to see what’s happening? So being fucked from behind isn’t…isn’t my thing. The back of my neck, but you know that already…” He shrugged. “I doubt you’d do the sorts of things I don’t like anyway.”

“How do you know?”

“Well for a start, you actually asked,” Grantaire said dryly. “Most people don’t. I’d be pretty surprised if you started shoving me around and calling me names.”

“People do that?” Enjolras looked stricken, and Grantaire hasted to reassure him.

“Some people like it, that’s all. But…” He gestured to Enjolras’ face. “Well, you don’t seem the type to just jump in with that sort of thing.”

Enjolras took a moment to digest this, then looked at him. “You like kissing, right?”

Grantaire nodded, smiling when Enjolras took that as the permission it was and moved forward to follow it up. It was far preferable to talking, in his opinion, especially since it meant they shifted even closer, legs naturally slotting together. Grantaire kissed Enjolras hungrily, eager to keep it going now they’d started again. Everything was so warm and comfortable, and getting warmer now they were getting hard once more.

Enjolras made a quiet noise against Grantaire’s lips, then pulled back a fraction to ask, “Can we, can I try what you did before?”

“Which thing?” Grantaire asked, too muddled to think back to figure out what Enjolras meant.

Enjolras took a breath. “When you used your mouth. Can I try that?”

Fuck yes, is what Grantaire meant to say. What came out was, “We could do it at the same time, if you like.”

“How?” Enjolras stared, and Grantaire covered his nerves with a shrug.

“One of us puts his head down the other end of the bed.”

Enjolras looked intrigued by the prospect. “Have you done it before?”

“Once.”

Apparently that was enough to convince him. Grantaire couldn’t look away as Enjolras sat up and pushed back the sheets (letting in the cold air, sadly), turning with more grace than should have been allowed so that his head was level with Grantaire’s mostly-hard cock, and Grantaire ended up gazing at his.

“Like this?”

“Exactly,” Grantaire managed to say. He lifted his hand to Enjolras’ thigh and stroked it, pulling him forward a little and pressing a kiss to his hip. The hair on his thighs was so pale it was barely visible, but Grantaire could feel it under his lips when he pressed his face to them, trying to get himself under control as Enjolras settled himself in place.

A hand pressed to the curve of his waist, sliding between it and the mattress, and Enjolras’ other arm looped over his side, exploring his body from this new angle. A shiver from Enjolras almost broke them apart, and he laughed apologetically. “Sorry.”

“Here.” Grantaire twisted back and pulled the sheets over them again. It would get stiflingly hot in minutes, probably less, but until then at least they would be warm, and like this they were in the dark, navigating only by touch, guided by their ears and tongues.

Grantaire started, more than a little preoccupied with the idea of having Enjolras in his mouth again. The angle was different like this, requiring a little more concentration, but it was worth it to feel Enjolras’ shudder in response. Enjolras took a different approach, curling his hand around Grantaire’s cock first and just licking the head, sudden enough to make Grantaire jerk in surprise. The next lick was slower, and Grantaire hummed his approval, moving his head slowly, eyes closed.

The heat under the covers was rising already, but there was something about the confinement that was pleasurable. The combination of holding onto Enjolras’ thighs, feeling his every move, urging him to thrust a little, Enjolras growing in confidence below him, and the heaviness of the sheets around him making everything more vivid. In the dark like this, it was so easy not to think, to just feel. Enjolras’ legs were radiating heat, and Enjolras’ hands and arms were holding him close, his mouth finally closing around Grantaire’s cock.

He hadn’t been lying – this was possibly his favourite bedroom activity. The wet heat of it was like nothing else, sloppy and outstanding, sparks of pleasure running through his skin as Enjolras experimented. He had to concentrate now not to forget about blowing Enjolras in favour of burying his head against his thighs and just losing himself in how good it felt. He tried to communicate his approval in moans, and Enjolras was a quick study, discovering with wonderful swiftness that Grantaire liked to be held tight, that he preferred loose, open lips to ones that closed around his cock, that if his ass was squeezed he would groan.

There wasn’t room for embarrassment in the stuffy dark. Grantaire gathered his senses and committed to blowing Enjolras with all the skill he possessed. He could go fairly deep, though not for long, and Enjolras definitely liked that if his shaking thighs were any indication. Grantaire wrapped his arm right around his thigh, squeezing until Enjolras crooked his knee up and began to thrust a little more, tentative but helpless. Grantaire’s other hand stilled him, and he bobbed his head to set his own pace, the air let in by Enjolras’ lifted knee raising the sheets welcome on his hot skin.

Heaven; that was all he could think. This was heaven. Dying like this would be a blissful death, fucking and being fucked, giving and taking in equal measure, both of them encouraging each other and feeling the other encourage them, driving each other on.

Grantaire broke the pattern first, jaw aching, need building up between his legs. He drew back and gasped, “Enjolras, I’m close, really…fuck, fucking close.”

He groaned as Enjolras carefully pulled off, lips pressed to the tip of his cock as he spoke, voice hoarse. “What should I do?”

“Whatever you want.”

“What will you do?”

“Swallow.” He always did – it was less of a mess.

“Is it easy?”

Grantaire breathed out, desperation ebbing slightly. “It is for me. If you…if you stay deep and just keep going and keep swallowing, you won’t even taste it.”

“Alright.” Enjolras slid his mouth back down Grantaire’s cock with no warning at all, and Grantaire had to squeeze Enjolras’ thigh and catch his breath before he could follow suit. It was a matter of seconds before he was back on the edge, and he drew his lips back to the tip of Enjolras’ cock in case he lost control just before he came.

Enjolras was perfect, holding him steady and swallowing around him until he was done, and he hadn’t pulled off before Grantaire was sucking him down again, determined to give just as good as he’d gotten. And it was an ecstasy all of its own to be able to take in Enjolras’ reactions, clear now the haze of arousal had abated. Grantaire shifted them, rolled Enjolras onto his back and moved his head faster, the weight of his arm over Enjolras’ thighs to keep his thrusts shallow enough not to choke.

Enjolras gasped and gasped, and though Grantaire couldn’t see it, he could feel the way he was arching his back and trembling. Delicate, shaking fingers brushed his hair, and Enjolras breathed, “Aire, I’m…”

Grantaire squeezed his knee, encouragement and acknowledgement in one, and went as deep as he could. Enjolras went still the second before he came, as he had before, and Grantaire swallowed every drop, pulling off so slowly it sent aftershocks shivering up Enjolras’ spine.

Enjolras’ thigh made a wonderful pillow, and Grantaire lay his head on it as they both got their breath back. Several seconds of quiet were at last interrupted by Enjolras heaving a huge sigh. “Fuck.”

Grantaire burst out laughing, lifting his head to see Enjolras grinning back at him, a little sheepish. Any fear that it might turn awkward was squashed. Enjolras got up to get a cup of water and blow out the candles in the other rooms, telling Grantaire firmly to stay. Far too relaxed and happy to disobey, Grantaire was half asleep by the time he returned, and it didn’t feel like an imposition to curl against Enjolras’ side to share the warmth he’d retained by remaining in bed.

Enjolras blew out the lamp and sighed again, a tired, content sound. “Thank you.”

“You too,” Grantaire mumbled.

Enjolras brushed careful fingers through his hair, and under his lids Grantaire’s eyes rolled back a little in pleasure. He’d only felt comfortable to stay with someone after sex twice before in his life, and neither had been as pleasant as this. He fell asleep so easily he didn’t even have time to think about it.

 

_He’s scared he’s scared he’s so scared he’s going to die of it, his heart’s racing so fast the beats are blurring, he can feel it in his throat his fingers his belly. Endless fear, eternal, deep as the dark he’s trapped in. He can’t see anything, nothing at all, everything is lost in the dark, he can’t even see himself. All he can do is cry, whimpers of terror whispering out of him, escaping into the blackness where they’re swallowed up, swallowed and eaten and consumed and vanished he’s vanished he’s gone nothing of him nothing left nothing there only the fear that’s all he is not even a he just fear f **ear FEAR** –_

It was dark and there was someone there and Grantaire lashed out so hard he overbalanced and fell backwards, back hitting the ground with a thud and panic racing through him when he kicked his legs and found them trapped, he was trapped, he was _in the house_ –

“Grantaire! Grantaire, stop, _stop_ , it’s only me!”

 _Enjolras_. Grantaire remembered, and reason returned. “Enjolras,” he whispered. “Fuck, Enjolras, are you alright?” His legs trembled as he untangled them from the sheets. “Did I hit you?”

“I’m fine.” Enjolras sounded shocked, getting out of bed to help Grantaire to his feet. “What happened?”

“Nothing, just a nightmare. Where did I get you? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. We can light the lamp and you can check, if you like.”

“Yes, please, sorry, I’m so sorry.” He was sweating, and still shaking a little. The darkness nightmares were so vivid now, as bad as they’d been when he was a child. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry. I’ll be right back, just one second.” Enjolras’ hand squeezed his shoulder before he hurried out of the bedroom. Grantaire listened to him move as if through a fog, telling himself he should try to straighten the sheets or wipe himself down or anything but just stand there and shiver, but the darkness was still so thick. Enjolras actually used his curtains, he realised. That’s why it was so much darker in here than in the spare room.

Enjolras returned then, bearing a lit candle in his hand that illuminated his face. Shock and worry mingled, and Grantaire looked at once for any marks he’d left – he was sure he’d hit Enjolras hard when he’d woken up. The flickering candle flame showed nothing, however, and he let Enjolras set the candle on the drawers and push him gently to sit on the bed.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” Grantaire muttered, tensing up to stop himself shivering. “You know that. It’s nothing.”

“You were shouting! That’s not nothing.”

“It’s fine, Enjolras, it’s been happening for months.”

“Months?”

“I must’ve told you.” Grantaire rubbed his hands over his face. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“I thought when you said you hadn’t been sleeping well that you’d been having trouble getting to sleep,” Enjolras said. “Not that you kept waking up.”

“Same difference, in the end.”

Enjolras frowned, but pursed his lips rather than keep haranguing him. “Hm. Stand up for a minute.”

Grantaire obeyed without thinking, and watched in a sort of stupor as Enjolras snapped the sheets straight again and gestured for him to get back in. “I shouldn’t,” Grantaire muttered. “I get more than one sometimes, I might wake you up again.”

“Then you’ll wake me up again,” Enjolras shrugged. “I don’t care. You’ll warm up faster with me next to you.”

Grantaire should have argued, but he was tired and shivering, and Enjolras was giving him an expectant look. He yielded and clambered back under the sheets, grimacing at the damp patch on the mattress he’d sweated through. Closing his eyes before Enjolras blew out the candle helped to still some of the panic that rose in him when the darkness returned. It dimmed further when Enjolras climbed in next to him and hooked an ankle over his, pressing a small kiss to his jaw.

“Will you be able to go back to sleep?” he asked, quiet and serious.

“Yeah.” It would be much easier than normal with Enjolras beside him.

“Go to sleep then.” Another kiss, and Enjolras settled down, his breathing evening out at once.

With such an example to follow, Grantaire couldn’t help but obey. It certainly didn’t hurt that he could feel and hear Enjolras’ body against his, incontrovertible proof that he wasn’t alone in the dark.

 

Grantaire woke up as Enjolras got out of bed, disturbed by the movement. He made a sleepy, questioning sort of noise, and then sat up as he remembered where he was, satisfaction warring with embarrassment. Oh, they’d certainly had a good night by his standards, possibly (he hoped) even by other people’s standards, but then he’d had to go and have that nightmare.

“Good morning.” Enjolras sounded like he was smiling, at least, and when he pushed the curtains open and turned around, Grantaire saw that he was. Better still, there was no mark at all on his chest – perhaps he hadn’t hit as hard as he thought he had. Enjolras saw him looking and his smile turned dry. “I told you I was fine. I don’t bruise easily. Would you like breakfast?”

Grantaire nodded, watching in silence as Enjolras went to his chest of draws with no self-consciousness to speak of and began to dress himself. Personally, Grantaire hoped he wouldn’t have to get out from under the sheets until Enjolras had left the room. It was one thing being naked in front of someone in what Musichetta might smirkingly call a moment of passion, but quite another to parade it around during daylight.

Enjolras did leave, giving him a small smile as he did, and Grantaire took a deep breath before sliding out of the bed and creeping across to the spare bedroom as soon as the coast was clear, picking his abandoned clothes up off the floor as he went. The front door opened and closed – Enjolras going out to use the outhouse – and Grantaire didn’t bother dressing before using the chamber pot under his bed. He’d empty it later, after breakfast. He needed to do some laundry again as well, he realised as he pulled his clothes on.

The little practicalities of life always stayed the same, no matter what seismic shifts occurred around them. He’d slept with Enjolras, but the world still turned, and the chamber pot still needed emptying and his clothes still needed washing. None of that ceased just because he’d sucked another man’s cock.

“I really did that,” he muttered to himself, dragging a hand across his chin and deciding he could do with a shave as well. “We really did that.” Would he tell the others? Normally, he would, but Enjolras had asked him to keep it a secret. Did the band really count though? They certainly wouldn’t tell anyone.

That, at least, was a decision he could put off. Enjolras came back in, and Grantaire steeled himself before going into the kitchen. Today’s porridge was made with water, but there was still honey in it, which was all Grantaire cared about.

“How often do you have nightmares?” Enjolras asked as the porridge thickened, both of them watching it rather than each other.

“Does it matter?”

“I think it does.”

Grantaire hesitated, but why lie? What would be the point? “Every night.”

That had Enjolras looking at him, and Grantaire kept his eyes fixed on the porridge. “Every single night? Really?”

“For months, I told you.”

“I didn’t realise it was even nightmares, you never said.” There was a note of recrimination in there that had Grantaire frowning.

“Why should I have said? It’s no one’s business but mine, and there’s nothing to be done about it. I’ve just got to tough it out.”

“Have you tried any medicines?” Enjolras asked, sounding flabbergasted. “Or…I don’t know, sleeping differently?”

Grantaire’s lips twitched, and he took the spoon from Enjolras’ hand to stir the porridge. “No and no. Unless you count wine as a medicine, which I’ve been told I shouldn’t. It’s fine, Enjolras. I catch up during the day.”

“When? Oh, when you go to the woods?”

“Mm.”

Enjolras frowned down at the pot. “That doesn’t seem…good enough.”

“No, see, good enough’s exactly what it is.” Grantaire gave the porridge another stir, then nudged the spoon handle back towards Enjolras. “It’s not great, it’s not unbearable. It’s just good enough. I can deal with it as long as I can catch up in the day. So far, it’s not touching me when the sun’s up.”

“It?”

Grantaire twitched. “The, um. The house.” He didn’t see Enjolras roll his eyes, but he did see him visibly repress the urge.

“The house.”

“Believe or don’t, it makes no difference to me.” Grantaire took a step away, putting some much-needed distance between them. “I’m sorry I woke you up, it won’t happen again.”

“It won’t?” Enjolras looked up from the pot, pinched eyebrows turning his expression quickly from hurt to something more neutral.

“Oh.” Grantaire was floored – he hadn’t expected Enjolras to want more. “Well, I mean. It can, if you want. The, um. The not-sleeping parts.” He rolled his eyes at himself before he could stop it. Since when had he shied away from vulgarity? “I’m more than happy to keep this up,” he said. “But since every time I wake up I kick around like a fish out of water, it’d probably be better if I don’t sleep in the same bed. You were lucky last night.” He nodded at Enjolras’ chest.

“Lucky?” Enjolras raised his eyebrows, porridge forgotten. Grantaire had to edge closer and take up stirring duties again. “You have a high opinion of your strength.”

“I’ve hurt people before by accident, waking up,” Grantaire said irritably. “You were lucky. I could’ve got your face or your throat. I got Marius in the eye once.”

“Well.” Enjolras went to get bowls out. “I can handle myself.”

“While you’re asleep?” Grantaire scooped the porridge into them one at a time. “No one’s on guard then. It’s just smarter to sleep apart.”

“What do you do when you’re on the move?” Enjolras asked, with the air of throwing down a trump card. “You must sleep next to people then.”

“And I’ve been kicked out of inns for causing a ruckus like that before,” Grantaire muttered. “Besides, it wasn’t regular till recently. And when it was, I slept out of people’s way, just in case. In barns and stables and such.”

Enjolras frowned, putting the bowls down on the table and getting them spoons, quiet while each of them stirred honey into their porridge. At last, he said, “It doesn’t seem fair.”

“Probably because it isn’t.” Grantaire shrugged. “Life isn’t fair, most of the time. Sooner you learn to accept it, happier you’ll be.”

“I can’t accept it,” Enjolras said simply. “I want things to be fairer. They should be fairer. As fair as they can be, at any rate.”

Grantaire shrugged again, chewing and swallowing before he replied. “You’ll never be able to make life fair for everyone. The only way you’d ensure that is by being a tyrant.”

“What do you mean?”

“A tyrant’s someone who thinks everyone should think and act the way he wants them to, isn’t he? Isn’t that what you’re saying?”

“Of course not!” Enjolras bristled. “That’s not it at all. I just want…I think there should be systems in place to help people, and stop so many bad things happening.”

“An impossible dream.” Grantaire didn’t react under the fire in Enjolras’ eyes.

“It isn’t impossible. It’s working here.”

“It didn’t work when I lived here.”

“Well it is now!”

“How do you know?” Grantaire snapped. He flinched at the sound of his own voice and looked down, purposefully pausing to make himself eat another spoonful of porridge. “You can’t…you can’t catch that sort of thing, usually. Even if you’re looking.”

“Why not?”

It was a challenge, and Grantaire shied from it for a moment, eating his porridge and then scratching the back of his neck. “Say,” he said slowly, “you saw something like that. You saw a kid with a black eye and you knew he hadn’t been to school, he’d only been at home. If no one said anything about it, why would you? And if it happened again, and again, say you asked him what was going on. What do you do if he tells you he’s just clumsy?”

Enjolras stared at him. “Are you talking about Madame Raine?”

That brought Grantaire up short. “What? Who?”

“Madame Raine. She lives with her daughter now.” Enjolras pursed his lips, then nodded to himself and continued. “Her husband used to hit her. She’d never say anything, but it was just like you said – she’d have bruises, and she’d say she was clumsy. But people guessed anyway, and they told her husband to leave.”

“And he left?”

“Not at first, but he did in the end. My mother made sure of that. Madame Raine wanted to go with him, but my mother talked to her and she decided to stay instead.”

Grantaire hummed, taken aback. He didn’t remember any Raines, but that didn’t mean anything with his useless memory. “How long did it take for people to do something?”

“Quite a long time.” Enjolras frowned, taking a bite of his own porridge. “But it’s like you said – if the person being hurt denies it, it makes it much harder.”

“You’re saying it’s their fault?”

“Of course not!” Enjolras scowled. “I’m only saying it makes it harder, that’s all. It’s no one’s fault for trying to survive.”

For a second, telling Enjolras about seeing Doctor Amiot was on the tip of Grantaire’s tongue. But the moment passed, and he kept on eating. He’d told the others, hadn’t he? Shouldn’t that be enough?

_It’s no one’s fault for trying to survive._

The words stuck with Grantaire as they cleaned up and left together, Enjolras heading for the town hall and Grantaire for the new house. Bossuet, Marius, and Musichetta were there as well, and Grantaire expected that he would relax in their presence, but as the day wore on, he found himself missing conversations, losing the thread of jokes, and messing up his tasks. His mind couldn’t stop bouncing between Joly’s father, what Enjolras had said that morning, and what they had done last night.

Would they do it again? Enjolras certainly seemed to be up for it. Grantaire could feel in his bones that it was a bad idea, but if that was the case, surely doing it at all had been a bad idea? What harm could it do, to take pleasure where they found it? He’d always done so before – what was different now?

The difference was in knowing Enjolras, he knew, but he buried the nagging thought deep and tried to keep his mind on the job at hand rather than sex.

 

Easier said than done, it turned out. Enjolras was determined to experiment to the edge of his body’s limits now that he’d found a willing partner, and Grantaire was nothing if not willing. The new house grew and solidified as a new routine took hold over their lives.

Breakfast together, separating for work. Enjolras now came down to help on the house every afternoon he could (Grantaire wondered whether it was expressly to torture him, because watching Enjolras wield his physical strength was far more of a turn-on than he’d anticipated). At least once every few days, the band played in Feuilly’s tavern, just for entertainment now, since they couldn’t expect the villagers to keep paying them to hear the same songs. If the weather was poor, or their hands weren’t needed, they practiced and composed together in the Saunier barn.

And every night, Enjolras would kiss him as soon as they were inside his apartment. Every night without fail, Grantaire found himself kissing back just as eagerly, holding on just as tight. Even if they were both tired from long days, Enjolras would lead Grantaire to his bed. Even if just to lie in the dark and talk before they fell asleep, Grantaire’s presence was demanded. Some nights he did fall asleep, but most of the time he managed to wait for Enjolras to drop off first, and then he would sneak into the spare room to have his nightmares in peace, because they stopped for nothing.

They used up Grantaire’s tin of oil far too soon, and moved onto a bottle of oil Enjolras got from somewhere. Grantaire got his wish to have Enjolras fuck him granted many times over, and was pleasantly surprised by how much Enjolras enjoyed being fucked as well, once they’d worked up to it. Everything Grantaire didn’t like about it, Enjolras loved. Being handled roughly, being pinned down and taken, even being taunted; that made Enjolras wilder than anything, and he was unapologetic in his desires in a way Grantaire couldn’t imagine being.

Though Grantaire never indicated his preference for Enjolras’ temperament when he took control, Enjolras could still somehow tell what he liked (luckily without having to put Grantaire through the humiliation of telling him). So when Enjolras took the lead, it was with more care. He teased, but he was never cruel. He never gripped too hard or tried to hold Grantaire still. He drew every sensation out, but never made Grantaire beg. It was sometimes embarrassing afterwards, when Grantaire had the chance to think without his mind being clouded by arousal, but Enjolras never made an issue of it.

He never made an issue of Grantaire’s scars either, something Grantaire couldn’t even begin to express his relief at. The most frequent reaction of the people he slept with was something between fascination and revulsion, but Enjolras never commented on them, and he never shied away from touching them the way others had. Grantaire knew the backs of his thighs in particular were a horrible sight, scar tissue built up over the years to ugly, knotted lines and bumps, but Enjolras didn’t seem to care, running his hands down them like there was nothing out of the ordinary there at all, even kissing the marks on a couple of occasions.

It was too good. All too addictive, and dangerous in the way it was becoming normal. At the harvest celebration, Grantaire both blessed and cursed the fact that he was in the band, unable to dance to the music they were making. If he’d been free, the temptation to dance with Enjolras would have been too strong.

Enjolras obviously had the same thoughts. They got up early the next day to start on clearing up the decorations from the night before, and alone in the town hall, they danced together. Grantaire hummed the music, and kissed Enjolras every chance he could, both of them ignoring the possibility of being seen.

It was Enjolras’ decision to keep what they were doing a secret, so why should Grantaire be careful? But then what right did he have to force Enjolras’ hand? He said nothing on the subject. He let Enjolras be the one to decide, not wanting to seem cold by suggesting they be more cautious.

On the upside, at least no one was looking in their direction with Marius and Cosette around. There was nothing like a bit of drink and dance for boosting confidence, and the combination had certainly worked for Cosette, who had had a quick, quiet word with Musichetta, and then pulled Marius’ guitar from his hands and dragged him away into the crowd.

It was easy to slip back into playing without a guitar, and they’d all watched with pride as Marius’ blush faded and he started dancing _with_ Cosette, as opposed to just following her helplessly. They were openly courting now, and it was all anyone could talk about. Grantaire should have been glad, relieved that the eyes of the villagers were focused elsewhere, but there was still a part of him that wanted to shout that he’d found something just as good, that Enjolras was as loved as his sister.

And it was thinking that that finally cracked his resolve. The next time he was alone with the band in the Saunier barn, he put his fiddle down and told them. “I’ve been sleeping with Enjolras.”

“I knew it!” Musichetta shouted, actually clapping her hands with glee. “I knew it!” She turned to Bossuet. “Didn’t I tell you! I thought they looked closer!”

“You said, yeah.” Bossuet frowned. “When did you start this?”

Grantaire sat down on an upturned bucket and sighed, the barn creaking in the wind. “While you were away.”

“You don’t sound happy.” Marius sat on the floor nearby, his guitar balanced across his knees. “Aren’t you happy?”

“It’s awful.” Grantaire swallowed, and found he couldn’t keep it bottled up now he’d uncorked it. “It’s _awful_. It’s…it’s all that horrible, sappy stuff you talk about when you’re feeling romantic.” He waved a hand at Bossuet and Musichetta, not looking up to see their reactions. “He’s perfect. He’s so…he’s…” _He’s so kind he makes me want to cry_ , he couldn’t say.

Marius nodded, shuffling closer to pat Grantaire’s knee in solidarity. “But we’re not staying,” he said, as grave as he’d been when they’d first met him and couldn’t decide whether he lacked a sense of humour or was just terribly shy.

“Carentan!” Bossuet exclaimed suddenly, sounding so hysterical that Grantaire and Marius both looked up at him in surprise. “It should be called the Love Village! Can you believe this? You’ve fallen in love with Marius’ paramour's brother –”

“I never said that!” Grantaire said, panicking, at the same time as Marius protested, “She’s not my _paramour!_ ”

“– and Chetta and I,” Bossuet went on, ignoring them, “have both fallen for the same man! They should write a book!”

“Who’s they?” Marius asked, spectacularly missing the obvious question. For his part, Grantaire was in stunned shock, and Musichetta had sunk to the floor with her head in her hands. Bossuet, meanwhile, was beginning to flail his arms, mandolin clutched tight in one hand.

“Anyone, Marius, anyone should write a book. Hell, I should write the book! Then I can sell the publishing rights, sell them for ten coppers a volume, and get rich off the proceeds! Then I can retire to the city with a charming wife and our two dozen children and I can gather them around the fire in the evenings to tell them how my first wife ran off and stole my future husband!”

Musichetta smacked his leg without looking, and Grantaire’s jaw dropped. “It’s Joly, isn’t it?”

“The good doctor is a saint, and I’m falling in love with him,” Bossuet said in a tone of absolute woe, dropping to the floor to sit with the rest of them in shared misery. “And it wouldn’t be a problem, except that we live with him, so we can’t get away, and every time I see him I remember all the things I like about him.”

“And neither of you…” Marius looked completely baffled as he waved a hand between them. “Mind?”

“We’ve had flirtations with other people before, Marius,” Musichetta muttered, not lifting her head. “You know that.”

“But…” Marius glanced, wide-eyed, at Grantaire. “I thought you were joking!”

“About dear Victor? I would never.” Victor had travelled with them for a couple of weeks, a year or so before they’d picked Marius up. He’d just been going from one town to the next, but he’d been a shameless flirt with his sights set on Bossuet’s wicked fingers, and since Musichetta had been absent, Bossuet had indulged it. Grantaire looked back at them and frowned. “You’ve never done this sort of thing at, well. The same time, so to speak.”

In fact, it was something he’d assumed was a rule between them. Their relationship wasn’t always sunbeams and roses, and Musichetta in particular would get itchy feet a lot faster than the rest of them, so there were periods of weeks or even months when they wouldn’t see each other, or wouldn’t want to see each other. Grantaire had slept between them more times than he could remember, a barrier to whatever argument they were having at the time.

“No,” Bossuet agreed uneasily, looking at Musichetta. “And it’s different to the other times in other ways as well. We live with him. We know him.”

“You can’t just fuck him and leave,” Grantaire nodded, understanding far too well. “Shit, this really is ridiculous.”

“I hate him!” Musichetta burst out, hitting the floor with a fist. “How could this happen? Bad enough I’ve got you to deal with!” she glared at Bossuet. “I can’t have two!”

Bossuet’s lips twitched. “Am I so bad?”

“You’re atrocious!” Musichetta scowled. “You’re always going slowly, always worrying about me, always just!” She waved a furious hand. “ _There!_ You never go away!”

“I love you too.” Bossuet said dryly. “It doesn’t solve the Joly problem though.”

Musichetta gave a sound of frustration and flopped backwards onto the ground. “I hate this place. If you’re slow, this village is fucking _glacial_.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Grantaire muttered. He reached over to squeeze Marius’ shoulder – he’d never really grown accustomed to witnessing Bossuet and Musichetta’s odd fights. “What are you going to do?” he asked them. This overshadowed his Enjolras problem, in his opinion. When it came down to it, he only really had to think of himself. Bossuet and Musichetta had to think of each other as well – double the trouble.

“We don’t know.” Musichetta sat up again, hay in her hair which Bossuet began to pick out. “How did you decide what to do with Enjolras?”

“I didn’t. He decided he wanted to do something about me, and I was hardly going to say no. And then…well, I mean I liked him before, obviously, but I know him even better now.” Fuck, he could feel himself blushing. “We keep talking,” he said, pained. “He probably knows as much about me as you do now.”

“We’re the same,” Bossuet sighed. “We just haven’t done the physical deed yet. I imagine the same goes for you and Cosette?” he asked Marius, who nodded, flushing pink.

“We’ve, um. Well, she. She kissed me,” he muttered, smiling helplessly when Grantaire smacked his back in congratulations. “I don’t think I did it very well.”

“You pick it up by practicing, I’ve told you before,” Musichetta smiled. “You’ll be fine.”

“And if you’re worried, you can practice with one of us,” Bossuet offered. “Or me, at least,” he amended, seeing Musichetta’s raised eyebrows.

“I think I’d like to just practice with her,” Marius mumbled, and Grantaire nodded.

“She seems like the type who’d appreciate that sort of commitment,” he said, managing to sound like he had any clue what he was talking about. Musichetta’s snort was comment enough on the validity of his opinions on the subject.

“We’ll figure something out,” Bossuet said, running his fingers through the soft frizz of Musichetta’s hair. “At the end of the day, we don’t have to do anything.”

“We don’t have to, but we should,” Musichetta sighed, shifting to lean against him. “Wasted opportunities eat you up inside. I don’t want to wonder about anything.”

They sat in silence for a while, united by their romantic predicaments. Whatever the separate circumstances, they all shared the obstacle of the travelling lifestyle. Realistically, Marius was the only one with a real shot at happiness by staying in Carentan, and now that Grantaire thought about it, he realised with a pang that it could happen. Marius adored Cosette, and he had none of the problems with Carentan that the rest of them did. For Cosette’s sake, he might stay.

At least if he did, Grantaire would have Bossuet and Musichetta. She could never stay anywhere, and Bossuet loved her too much to let her go on without him for long. He would always have them, even if he lost everything else.

The quiet was broken eventually by Marius beginning to strum his guitar, practicing the tune they’d been picking out the day before. He was definitely getting better, hardly stumbling at all. Grantaire could easily picture him singing his children to sleep, letting them pluck the strings while he held the right notes and chords for them. But what progress would his music make, stuck here in Carentan?

What would happen when they left?

There wouldn’t be a certain answer until it happened, but Grantaire went back to Enjolras that evening with low spirits, unwilling to share the reason with Enjolras himself. He curled close when they went to bed, his chest against Enjolras’ back, and wished he could just take Enjolras with him. But what would Enjolras do on the road, if he came? Not many people took naturally to an instrument the way Marius did – that was a rare gift to possess past childhood – and he’d heard Enjolras’ voice. It was better than his own, but that was hardly saying much, and it was certainly nowhere near the level of the others.

And in any case, Enjolras wouldn’t come. He loved Carentan too much to leave, and Grantaire hated it too much to stay. He pressed his forehead to Enjolras’ shoulder and sighed. The new house was thickening by the day, the roof now complete and the insides being constructed. Stairs, doorframes, glass for the windows, cupboards; all those things that made a house habitable were planned and ready to go ahead. It wouldn’t be long before the old house would be burned, and Grantaire would go.

But of course, that was exactly what Enjolras wanted. He wasn’t like Cosette, openly taking Marius as a lover. He’d wanted a period of brief experimentation and enjoyment, and that was exactly what Grantaire was giving him. No more.

 

_He’s in the floors, crawling in the space between the ceiling of the ground floor and the landing of the first, hiding and on the move, creeping careful, careful, careful in the musty brown dark. Footsteps stamp overhead, a rolling wave of cold silence following in their wake that presses him down against the boards, shivering shackering shackling in his bones as they rattle under his skin. He comes out on the top step of the stairs, but he doesn’t want to go down, oh no, not down there, down where the darkness lies._

_He hides next in the closet on the landing, under the bottom shelf. It’s not enough, none of his places are good enough. The loud footsteps come, and he watches muddy boots through the gap between the box and the wall, not breathing because he can’t be found, he can’t be seen, he mustn’t be caught or he’ll be punished._

_Rat._

_He’s transforming, turning small and squeaky and even uglier, he’s a rat and he’s been caught and now he’s being thrown and he turns back into himself as he hits the wall and the belt comes lashing down, buckle slamming into his back and making him scream. The darkness is coming up the stairs, he can see it behind his father’s shadow, it’s eating his father’s shadow and making him hit him again again again and he screams louder because the silence is coming with the dark and it’ll eat him whole it’s eating him whole he’s in the dark and he can’t get out he can’t get out can’t get out can’t get out get out get out get –_

Grantaire was crying as he snapped awake, and for once he didn’t try to stop. Out of sheer frustration more than anything else, he cried until he could barely breathe, shaking so hard the bedframe trembled. At least he wasn’t in Enjolras’ bed. That was the only good thing he could think of, and all it did was make him ache for Enjolras’ body.

Face still damp and swollen, Grantaire padded back into Enjolras’ bedroom and slid back into bed with him, tucking himself against Enjolras’ side and clinging to his warm bulk. Enjolras barely stirred. Such a heavy sleeper, he just rolled over and pressed himself to Grantaire more comfortably, familiar even while unconscious with the shape of Grantaire’s body.

Something about the way he did that made Grantaire’s heart clench. Enjolras’ presence banished the lingering fear from the dream, and Grantaire fell asleep again easily, feeling safe despite his common sense telling him the opposite was true.

The morning brought kisses and an unusual lingering in bed. Usually, Enjolras was out as soon as he woke, getting dressed and making breakfast in short order. Today, he lay in uncharacteristic silence with his head against Grantaire’s shoulder, apparently unwilling to leave the warmth of the blankets.

“Don’t you have a job to be getting to?” Grantaire murmured. “Don’t I, for that matter?”

“You don’t have to work on the house,” Enjolras said. “You’re paying for it – why do you join in the work as well?”

“You know why.” Grantaire played with a strand of blonde hair. “The sooner it’s built, the sooner I can burn the old house down.”

“And the sooner you’ll leave.”

Grantaire looked up at the ceiling and waited the space of two long breaths before saying, “I have to leave at some point.” There was a pain in his throat, and it flared when Enjolras drew away, rolling onto his back. They lay in silence for a horrible moment, and just as Grantaire was about to ask if everything was alright, Enjolras got out of bed.

“I should make breakfast,” he muttered, not looking at Grantaire as he pulled off his nightshirt and got dressed.

What had he said wrong? Grantaire puzzled over it as he worked on the house that day, finally coming to the conclusion that Enjolras was impatient with the progress on the house. He probably hadn’t expected to have Grantaire lodging with him for so long, and it was true that the sex had wound down a little – Enjolras was tiring of him, that was all. Their period of experimentation had come to a natural end, but the building was coming along too slowly to match it.

It was fine. Grantaire ignored the persistent ache in his throat and decided to face it head on. He’d known it would come to this all along, so why wait for Enjolras to break it to him? Surely it would be better to spare him the awkwardness and just have out with it.

Enjolras made a sort of potato and leek pie without much actual pastry that evening, and bolstered by wine he’d bought from Feuilly earlier that day and downed a third of a bottle of on his way to the apartment, Grantaire cleared his throat. “You know, there are plenty of other places I could stay if you wanted.”

Enjolras’ spoon slipped from his hand and landed in his bowl so hard it splattered pie across both their faces. “Shit,” he cursed, grabbing the towel from the counter behind him and passing it to Grantaire, wiping his own face with his sleeve. “What? Why do you want to move?”

“I don’t!” Grantaire hesitated, holding onto the rag like a lifeline. “I just thought…this morning, you…”

“I don’t want you to leave!” Enjolras sighed and got up to wash properly at the sink, splashing water onto his face and then standing there. “I don’t want you to leave,” he said again, not looking at Grantaire.

“But you did want me to,” Grantaire said, feeling frantic for some reason. “Didn’t you? I though the whole point of you doing this with me was because I don’t live here and you won’t have to see me again after I go.”

Enjolras gripped the edge of the sink and closed his eyes for a moment, then turned to face him, though he couldn’t quite meet Grantaire’s eyes. “Those were my intentions, yes,” he said. “However, since then, I…” He took a breath and looked at Grantaire properly. “I’m not asking you to stay forever. I know you could never stay here after everything that’s happened, and I’m not asking you to.”

Grantaire was missing something, he was sure of it, but he nodded anyway, hoping he didn’t look too confused. “Thank you?”

“I just want you to stay while you’re here,” Enjolras told him, gripping the back of his chair now. “Stay while you can. With me.”

“If that’s what you want.” Grantaire tried to smile, to reassure him. It seemed to have the opposite effect – Enjolras frowned and then huffed.

“It’s not just for sex, Aire. That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh?” Grantaire hesitated, out of his depth. “Well, er, what…?”

“If I thought you would ever do it, I would ask you to stay here,” Enjolras sighed. “With me. Do you understand?”

“Stay forever?”

“Yes. And not as a secret,” he added, looking slightly ashamed.

“You mean that?” Grantaire couldn’t believe it, but Enjolras nodded.

“We don’t have to be a secret now, if you don’t want. I’m sorry, I’ve been so stupid about it all. Combeferre and Courfeyrac have made me realise…well, a lot.”

“You’d want me to stay for good? And live with you?” Grantaire was still stuck on that detail, and Enjolras’ lips twitched nervously.

“Yes. The way Combeferre and Courfeyrac do.”

“Oh.” Grantaire stared at him, distantly aware that his dumbfounded silence was putting Enjolras even more on edge, but finding himself unable to break it. It took Enjolras clearing his throat uncomfortably to jerk him out of his stupor and stand up, closing the distance between them with one step and kissing him. It was the only thing he could think to do, the only way to tell Enjolras how he was feeling.

Enjolras kissed back with relief, smiling into it and wrapping both arms around Grantaire’s waist. “You don’t mind then?”

“ _Mind?_ ” The workings of Enjolras’ brain would always be a mystery. Grantaire shook his head as Enjolras grinned.

“Good.”

In the end, they left their supper for so long that they had to reheat it in the oven, but neither of them cared.

 

The week after the new house was finished, the Larocques began to move their things in. Grantaire kept out of their way, hiding in the Saunier barn under the guise of playing with the others, though he ended up sleeping more than anything else. In the final stages of the new house’s completion, his nightmares had gotten worse. He’d become almost nocturnal, resorting to reading by lamplight rather than falling asleep and waking up with his heart racing, body slick with cold sweat. It wasn’t worth it.

He dozed fitfully while the others played music and cards and word games around him, fully appreciating for the first time what Musichetta had said about lack of sleep driving people mad. He certainly felt like he was falling off the edge. No distraction lasted long – his concentration was shot, and he kept drifting off into daydreams that weren’t quite horrible enough to qualify as daymares, but did often end with him jerking awake unpleasantly. Far too many of them involved the old house, and the door to the cellar.

“Not long now,” Marius kept telling him, trying to make him smile. “It’ll all be over soon.”

But what if it wasn’t? What if the cellar couldn’t be destroyed? What if something went wrong and someone got hurt?

He kept getting the urge to do stupid things, little nagging impulses that wouldn’t go away. He’d find himself transfixed by the fire in Feuilly’s tavern, something in him wanting to shove his hand or his head into the flames. Oh it would hurt, to be sure, but still…

Or else, he’d wind up in Enjolras’ kitchen while Enjolras was asleep, wondering what it would feel like to take the biggest knife in the drawer and plunge it into his torso, just below his ribs, right in the centre.

The part of the Mosailles near Carentan would only come up to his thighs, but Grantaire caught himself imagining the sorts of things he could tie to his neck or place on his chest to hold him under the water.

As he lay on the floor of the Saunier barn, he stared, glassy-eyed, up at the rafters and touched his neck, imagining how a rope would feel looped around it, how easy it would be to climb up and tie it to a beam and just…let go.

And more and more often he would think of the cellar, and of the deep black darkness behind the door, waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He would think of how easy it would be to go back to the house – he would walk up the front steps and across the porch, straight through the front door and into the parlour, and the cellar would be open for him, he would walk towards it and through the door, down the steps, and the door would close behind him –

Jerking out of those particular daydreams was always the worst. He noticed that in those imaginings, everything seemed to be especially smooth, like he was floating rather than walking, and the house was the same as it had been in his childhood. The same as it was in his nightmares.

He didn’t tell anyone about the visions, not wanting to scare them and clinging to the hope that burning the house down would make them stop. Whether it was a side-effect of his sleepless nights or the cellar creeping into his mind, it didn’t matter. Talking about them wouldn’t make them stop. But when he started hurting himself in his sleep, he started to get really scared.

It was Enjolras who noticed, when he came into the parlour on the morning the Larocques were to move the last of their possessions out of the old house and saw Grantaire half-asleep on the couch. “What happened to your face?” he gasped.

“My face?” Grantaire touched his cheek, startled. It didn’t feel any different – maybe a bit tender? He got up, staggering tiredly, and Enjolras came to hold his arm, wide-eyed.

“You’ve scratched yourself – you’ve actually cut yourself here.” His fingers brushed a spot on Grantaire’s neck, and at the little spark of pain, Grantaire flinched.

“Shit.” Grantaire touched it himself, looking at his fingers. There was no blood, but it definitely felt sore. “Is it bad?”

“It’s not good.” Enjolras frowned. “Come here.” He led Grantaire into the kitchen and went to one of the cupboards, rummaging around until he found a large silver dish, polished to a shine. He came over and held it up so that Grantaire could see a blurred, slightly distorted reflection of himself, showing the red stripes that marred his face. There were a lot of them going down his neck as well, and when Grantaire looked at his arms, there were raised scratches there as well. “Grantaire?”

They reminded him of the marks his father’s cane had left, only without the swollen black bruising.

Grantaire was shivering, but he didn’t realise until Enjolras hugged him, helping him be still. It was in his head, every time he closed his eyes, it was _waiting_ for him, and he clung to Enjolras and tried to keep breathing.

“I’ve got you,” Enjolras told him, admirably calm. “It’s alright, you’re going to be alright.”

They sank to the floor, and Grantaire kept his face pressed to Enjolras’ shoulder, holding onto him as tightly as he could just to feel Enjolras hold him back. Even here, he could feel himself on the edge of sleep or some grisly vision, and he was sick of it. “How many days,” he mumbled. “How many left?”

“Two days.” Enjolras stroked his hair. “Maybe even one, if the old house is stripped today.”

They were taking everything that had been added after Grantaire’s departure. By his order (an order delivered by Cosette, since he didn’t dare order people he didn’t know, or anyone at all for that matter), everything that had been present before that was to remain, whether it was salvageable or not. It was all to burn.

“It has to burn,” he muttered, and it was a mark of how worried Enjolras was that he didn’t even comment on the absurdity of Grantaire’s obsession as he usually did.

“It will,” he said instead. “Do you want me to join them today? What work I have can wait a few days.”

“You mustn’t go in the cellar.” Grantaire drew back. It was the only other order he’d given concerning the house – no one was to open the cellar door or go down into it. He was aware that some people thought he was concealing evidence of a crime or something equally interesting and nefarious, but he didn’t care. They could poke around in the ashes when the fire had eaten everything.

“I won’t.” Enjolras kissed his forehead. “I won’t let anyone else in either, alright?”

“You promise?” He sounded like a child, but Enjolras didn’t smile.

“I promise. Come on, are you hungry?” Grantaire shook his head as Enjolras helped him back up onto his feet. “Well, you should eat something anyway.”

“Just bread,” Grantaire muttered, taking a seat at the table. “Please?”

“That’s fine.” Enjolras kissed the top of his head as he went past to get bread and butter out. “There’s jam too, if you want it, or honey.”

Grantaire shook his head, forcing himself to keep his eyes open. “No, thank you.”

Enjolras ate his bread with a lot of jam and sent Grantaire off to Feuilly’s before heading over to the old house. Just thinking of him being anywhere near it made Grantaire’s skin crawl, but it was too late to call him back now. He only hoped that they would finish gutting the place today so that he could burn it tomorrow and end the business for good.

Only Marius was in Feuilly’s. “They went to help with the house,” he told Grantaire, answering his unasked question concerning Bossuet and Musichetta’s whereabouts. “I thought I’d keep you company. Do you want me to kick you if you start tensing?”

Apparently when he slept he would sleep normally for a while, and then tense up when he started to have nightmares. If the others saw him do it, they would try to wake him – when they caught it early enough, it actually worked, but past a certain point he couldn’t be woken without taking serious measures.

“Please,” Grantaire said tiredly, slumping into a chair by the fire. Carentan’s ever-present winds were freezing cold now as midwinter approached, only a month or so away, and Feuilly kept the fire in his tavern going all day.

Marius frowned, leaning forward. “Grantaire…your face…”

“Maybe you should tie me to the chair.” Grantaire yawned, putting his arms on the table and pillowing his head on them. No bed had ever felt comfier. “Apparently I did this to myself in my sleep.”

“God.” Marius’s shock turned suddenly into a fierce scowl. “I can’t wait for this place to burn, I really can’t. Even if it does mean we leave, I hate what it’s doing to you.”

Surprised, Grantaire smiled. “Thanks, Marius.” He laughed when Marius looked down and blushed, then got up to get them each a drink. He twisted his head to watch him go, still grinning. He was so lucky, to have friends who hated it when he was hurting. Whatever horrible things happened to them in his nightmares, at least the cellar couldn’t get into their heads the way it got into his. And if burning the house worked, he would only have to bear the pain of it himself for one more day.

He passed the time trying to catch more than half an hour’s sleep at a time, too often yanked back into consciousness either by the sharp ending of a daydream or by Marius shaking him before he could slip into a nightmare. Feuilly gave both of them soup too kindly to refuse, though it took Grantaire almost two hours to finish it, and it was almost dark by the time Bossuet, Musichetta, and several others returned, Enjolras among them.

Everyone was talking, but Grantaire couldn’t pick out more than the occasional sentence. He was sweating from the heat of the fire, and embarrassed by the scratches on his face that he was sure people were staring at. Musichetta angled her body in front of his chair to shield him from most of them, but he could still hear them talking, whispering, muttering. They might not be talking about him, but they just as easily might be.

At least they had finished stripping the house, he gathered. Tomorrow morning Jehan would come and make sure the wood would burn, and they would tear down what remained of the insides and pile it in the main rooms downstairs for fuel. The fires would be lit, and that would be the end of it.

“One more night,” Enjolras whispered, his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders as they walked back to his apartment in the dark. “We’ll stay up with you.” For the others had come too, at Enjolras’ invitation. They would sit in the parlour and make sure he didn’t fall asleep too deeply and hurt himself, and Grantaire could feel only relief because if they were there, it would mean he wouldn’t get up in the night and make one of his terrible visions real.

“Even if one of us falls asleep, not all of us will,” Musichetta said, as if hearing his fears. “Apparently the boy upstairs is sleeping somewhere else tonight, so we can make as much noise as we like.”

“As long as you don’t wake Monsieur Roussel,” Enjolras put in quickly, and Grantaire could practically hear her roll her eyes.

“Heaven forfend. Fine, we’ll try not to wake the dead.”

It was a long night.

Grantaire passed it in varying stages of consciousness, so tired that he wanted to scream whenever he was woken by his well-meaning friends. It hardly mattered if he had nightmares when his waking mind had become just as riddled with horrible visions. Enjolras’ parlour seemed to distort before his eyes, the fire at one point seeming to burst from the grate and swallow the room.

He tried to talk with the others, but stopped after a couple of hours when he realised he was repeating half of what he was saying, and being far too honest about things he would never normally speak of so openly. He lay with his head on Enjolras’ thigh, miserable and exhausted, time stretching out ahead of him for an eternity. What felt like an hour of dozing turned out to last only ten minutes in reality. The hands of Bossuet’s pocket watch, laid open on the table for everyone to see, moved so slowly that Grantaire kept asking if it had wound down.

Eventually, Enjolras held it next to his head. The steady tick-tick-tick was soothing, proof that time really was passing, even if it didn’t feel like it.

And at last, the sky outside began to lighten. Grantaire could have cried with relief. He refused breakfast until Marius of all people threatened to go hungry as well, though even then he managed to choke down only two slices of bread. It was enough to satisfy the others, who walked either side of him on their way to his father’s old house.

It seemed to loom out of the dawnlight, a pale blot against the forest behind it, and for a second Grantaire almost lost his footing and fell, but then Bossuet grabbed his arm and kept him upright, and Grantaire looked at the house properly. Even from a distance, it was obviously vacant. The glass in the windows had been removed, hacked out to leave jagged gaps, and the front door was open.

The whiteness of it was startling. Grantaire knew from his last visit that it had been repainted, but the months since had darkened it in his memory until it looked the way it had when he’d lived there. Perhaps he shouldn’t have avoided it so scrupulously. Maybe if he’d looked more often his mind would have had less to feed on.

It was too late for such speculation now though, and he jumped when Enjolras called, “Jehan!”

A figure had come from around the back of the house, and as they approached, it waved and solidified in Grantaire’s vision until it took Jehan’s shape. “Good morning,” he said cheerfully once they were in earshot. “We should get everything ready as soon as possible – the sooner we burn it, the better.”

“Don’t tell me you still believe it’s cursed?” Enjolras smiled.

Jehan only shrugged. “Cursed or not, it’s safer to burn it while the wind’s down. Ah – here come the others.”

Grantaire looked over his shoulder and saw several people approaching from down the slope. Bahorel and the other regulars, he assumed, swaying slightly on his feet. Musichetta took his arm to steady him and squeezed it tight.

“Let’s you and I watch from over there, shall we?” she muttered. “One day inside that place was enough for me. It shouldn’t be long.” She led him over to a bit of grass far away enough that they couldn’t clearly hear what the workers were saying as they went inside the shell of the house. Banging and splintering sounds soon began to spill out, echoing in the still air. Grantaire watched, more alert than he had been in days, half listening to Musichetta singing folk songs under her breath.

He wished suddenly for his fiddle. How fine it would be to play a vicious jig while the source of his nightmares burned. How marvellous it would be to stand victorious as the flaming house collapsed into the cellar and brought fire into the dark.

It was ready in just over an hour. Everything that could be torn down had been, and all of it piled in the kitchen, parlour, and dining room. Those who had come to complete the last leg of work they had been paid for came outside and waited for Jehan to declare it ready. Grantaire stood with Musichetta, their arms around each other’s waists. Marius and Bossuet were over by Bahorel, and Cosette was talking to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but Grantaire had eyes only for the door, impatient for Jehan to emerge from inside.

And at last, there he was, sending Grantaire a nod as he took a small box – containing fire, Grantaire knew – from another man and went back inside.

“It’s finally happening!” Musichetta whispered, gripping him tight with excitement, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, Grantaire smiled.

Only –

There was a small cheer from the closest onlookers as Jehan started the fire in the dining room, and the bottom seemed to drop out of Grantaire’s stomach as he looked around and found no blonde head. No Enjolras.

“Enjolras,” he breathed. “Chetta, can you see him?”

She went still. “No.”

He was inside. And if Jehan hadn’t seen him in his final check, then that meant there was only one place he could be. Grantaire was running before the realisation had fully formed, sprinting up the steps and ignoring the shouts of surprise.

Jehan was just coming out of the dining room, but Grantaire ignored him and went for the parlour. The second he saw the door something seized his entire body and stopped him dead, a horrible nausea tearing through him and draining the strength from his limbs. There was a weight like a lead ball in his chest and he was whimpering, the cellar door shut tight like a spiteful mouth and holding his gaze so fiercely he couldn’t move. It was his nightmares made real, and a wave of familiar mindless terror swept through him. Enjolras was on the other side of the door, but Grantaire could hardly breathe for fear of opening it, a child once more, trapped.

A hand snapped his face sideways, the force of it sending him staggering into the wall. “Get out!” Jehan shouted at him. “What are you doing?”

His heart was beating so hard he could feel it on his lungs, but he could breathe, and he could move. Enjolras was on the other side of the door, but the cellar couldn’t hold Jehan the way it held Grantaire. And just like that, he was stumbling forwards towards the door, retching as he grabbed the handle.

There had never been a lock, and for the first time in his entire life Grantaire was grateful for it as he wrenched the door open and saw darkness flinch back like a physical creature from the sudden light. The impossibility of the sight made him heave again, but Enjolras was huddled at his feet, falling forward now the support of the door was gone, and Grantaire bent down to grab him without thinking. The terror was so familiar by now that he managed to contain it by just holding his breath, and he dragged Enjolras to his feet and away from the threshold, trembling from the effort.

“Close it,” he gasped at Jehan, his voice ragged with fear. “Close it!”

To his credit, Jehan didn’t hesitate. He slammed the door shut and dragged a large block of wood in front of it. “Go!” he shouted, and Grantaire went. His arm around Enjolras’ shaking shoulders, he ran out of the house, feeling the heat of the fire in the dining room brush his side as he passed it.

There were people shouting outside, yelling questions, demanding answers, but they were kept at bay by Bossuet and Marius on one side, Musichetta and Cosette on the other. Grantaire was able to get Enjolras away to where he and Musichetta had been sitting, and they both fell to their knees as flames began to lick up one side of the house.

Enjolras clung to him, breathing in scared little pants, and for once Grantaire was the one doing the comforting even though he was still pale and sweating, holding Enjolras close as Jehan came out and made the small crowd back away from the house as the fire took hold. The heat grew to a ferocious height, forcing people back more effectively than Jehan’s words ever could, and in only a minute, everyone was as far away from the blaze as Grantaire and Enjolras.

Neither of them spoke. When Grantaire looked at Enjolras, he could see the fire reflected in his eyes, and when he pressed his palm against Enjolras’ chest, he could feel how fast his heart was still beating. They were joined before long by the others, Grantaire’s bandmates and Enjolras’ friends, all of them watching in silence as the house began to collapse in on itself, sending up more smoke than Grantaire would have believed possible, a black column stretching hundreds of feet up into the air.

It looked horrific, like a disaster, but despite all the smoke in the air Grantaire was breathing easier than he had in weeks, in months, the horrible nausea already gone. Something inside the house cracked, and both he and Enjolras jumped – the fire had finally fallen into the cellar. There was no visual indication of it, but Grantaire could feel it working. Like an itch in his chest or a tightness under his skin, his tension was being eaten away by the flames as the cellar and whatever was in it was consumed.

And against his side, Enjolras was breathing easier too. None of them moved for hours, even when everyone else left. To Grantaire’s left sat Bossuet, Musichetta, Marius, and Cosette. On Enjolras’ right, Jehan, Bahorel, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac. They watched without a single word until the house was nothing but a pile of white-hot embers that would burn, Jehan said at last, probably until the next day. Everything had fallen into the pit below the house – not a single wall was left standing.

Finally, Grantaire stood up, bringing Enjolras with him. They declined Courfeyrac’s suggestion of lunch at Feuilly’s and headed instead for Enjolras’ apartment, the enduring silence between them not an uncomfortable one.

Inside, they consumed the last of the bread, this time with jam for both of them. They stripped and washed in the kitchen, cleaning each other of the soot that had turned every exposed bit of skin grey and black, and they fell into Enjolras’ bed still without saying a word. Everything they needed to speak out loud could wait, Grantaire understood, and until then he told Enjolras how relieved he was through touch, holding him tightly and kissing his freshly scrubbed face in a hundred different places.

They’d barely been in bed a minute when Grantaire’s lack of sleep caught up with him with the force of an oncoming tidal wave, and he fell into a deep, mercifully dreamless sleep.

 

He woke twice, first alone in the afternoon, and once more in the dark with Enjolras pressed against his side again. Each time it was easy to go back to sleep, sinking into it with a gleeful smile because it was possible. He could sleep again.

The next morning, he woke up as Enjolras left the bed, and reached out to pull him back into it without thinking. Enjolras laughed and allowed it, pressing a kiss to Grantaire’s cheek. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve slept through the whole night,” Grantaire grinned. “For the first time in months.” He hooked a leg over Enjolras’ and wriggled as close as he could. “I can’t believe it worked.”

“The fire should be out by now,” Enjolras said quietly. “It really is over. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” he added, barely audible. “About the cellar.”

Grantaire sobered, tangling his fingers in the ends of Enjolras’ hair. “I wish you still didn’t.”

“Do you know what was in there?”

“No. Nothing…nothing normal. Nothing as simple as an animal or a person.”

“Did anyone ever die in there?”

Grantaire shook his head. “My mother and grandmother died in their beds, my grandfather died in the woods, and my father died in his bed as well. There’s never been anyone else, as far as I know. It never felt like anything human down there anyway.”

Enjolras shivered. “I didn’t mean to go in. I couldn’t stop thinking about it the whole day before, when we were all stripping the house. Jehan put a brick in front of it to keep it shut, because the door kept opening.”

“It does that. Did that.”

“I wanted to see for myself. I went in after Jehan and the door was open –” Like it was waiting, he didn’t say, but Grantaire heard it all the same. “There wasn’t time to get a lamp. I just wanted to see what was down there, if there was anything we’d missed. It sounds insane now – I wouldn’t ever do anything like that normally.”

“Was anything there?” Grantaire asked, suddenly curious. “My father used to just throw things down there, all sorts of rubbish.”

“It looked like rubbish,” Enjolras agreed, subdued. “It was just…shapes. Old tools, what looked like a bedframe made of metal…cobwebs everywhere. There were shelves, and a sort of path through them. I couldn’t see any further than that, but I wanted to, so I went further in. And then the door closed.”

It had already happened, and Enjolras was safe, but Grantaire still held him a little tighter.

“I told myself it was Jehan, but I knew it wasn’t, and it felt like all the…junk and rubbish sort of disappeared or became bigger or something. I tried to get back to the stairs, but I couldn’t find them and I kept bashing into stuff and tripping up and it felt like there was something else in there with me.” Enjolras shivered again and made an annoyed sound. “I sound like such a fool.”

“You don’t to me.” Grantaire shook his head. “I never went to the bottom of the steps. Not even my father could make me. I was more scared of the cellar than I was of him.”

“Because there was something there?”

“Yeah. And it would get me if I went too close. It wanted to get me all the time.”

“To kill you?”

“Not exactly. Did you think it was going to kill you?”

“Sort of.” Enjolras narrowed his eyes. “I found the stairs but I couldn’t get out. It was like the door was nailed shut, it wouldn’t even budge. And after a couple of seconds I even stopped banging on it. It felt dangerous, like drawing attention to myself. As if it didn’t know where I was anyway. It came up the stairs behind me…” He trailed off, then cleared his throat. “I’ve never been afraid like that before. Never. And it…I don’t know if it would’ve killed me, but it would’ve…got me, like you said.” He let out a shuddery little breath and met Grantaire’s eyes. “You said your father locked you in there once.”

“Once.” Grantaire looked down. “He put something in front of the door so I couldn’t get out.”

“What happened?”

Grantaire sighed. “In all honesty, I don’t remember. I know I must have screamed for hours, because I lost my voice, and I remember being bruised all over from throwing myself against the door, but that’s all. I was in there all night, and I’m sure I never went lower than the third step, but I was scared completely out of my mind. If anything more happened, I don’t remember. My father dragged me out in the morning and the only thing that changed was that I was even more frightened of the cellar than before.”

“Maybe it’s nothing physical,” Enjolras said. “So it can’t kill you or really hurt your body in any way. It just scares you.”

“My father went down there all the time,” Grantaire murmured. “I was thinking it was maybe just children, but it got you as well, and it’s had me my whole life. I don’t remember anything useful.”

“The mind protects itself,” Enjolras said softly. “That’s what Combeferre says. Feuilly can’t remember most of his childhood, and he thinks it’s because remembering it would be too difficult. His mind keeps it buried so he can live easier. Maybe that’s what your mind does too.”

“Maybe.” Grantaire shuffled down the bed to press his face against Enjolras’ chest, tired again. Enjolras’ fingers brushed through his hair, untangling and playing with it gently.

“I can’t believe you _lived_ there,” he whispered. “For seventeen years, with that under the house.”

“You can get used to anything, I suppose.”

“And the Larocques lived there,” Enjolras said, aghast. “Their children…and they had to stay there the whole time we were building their new house.”

“I tried to get it done as fast as I could.”

Enjolras made a shuddery sort of sound and held him tighter, pressing his face to Grantaire’s hair. “At least it’s gone now,” he said at last. “What are you going to do?”

“Eat, drink, and be merry,” Grantaire hummed, lifting his face to press a kiss to the underside of Enjolras’ jaw. “And sleep.”

“Here?”

Something in Grantaire’s chest twinged, surprising but not unpleasant. Enjolras didn’t want him to leave immediately, it seemed. Grantaire smiled, tucking his face against Enjolras’ neck. “Yes. For a while.”

His suspicions were confirmed when Enjolras made a pleased noise and kissed his head. “Good.”

They stayed in bed until the combination of full bladder and empty belly forced Grantaire up, Enjolras following. They met Marius, Bossuet, and Musichetta on the way to Feuilly’s, and since Marius had a loaf of bread and Musichetta had a jar of honey, they changed direction and went up to the remains of the old house instead.

“There were some interesting-sounding places beyond Marçan,” Musichetta said as they walked, already thinking ahead. “Remember that man who said Renoir had a huge winter market? That would be worth hitting. And there are probably half a dozen towns and villages between Marçan and there we could stop at along the way.”

The house was gone. Incredibly, there was still wisps of smoke rising from the black mess of burned timber, but it was a dying gasp. Grantaire stared and stared, almost getting honey on his chin as he tried to eat without looking away.

“Grantaire? Grantaire!”

“What?” He tore his gaze away, blinking. Bossuet grinned.

“Did you sleep well? Enjolras said you’ve been in bed since yesterday.” He smirked, waggling his eyebrows in a highly suggestive manner that made Enjolras flush.

“I didn’t –”

“Not a single dream,” Grantaire interrupted, touching Enjolras’ wrist where the others couldn’t see. “I’ll probably collapse early tonight as well.”

“Good.” Musichetta spat in the direction of the smouldering house. “Good riddance to foul rubbish.”

Her action reminded Grantaire of something, and he leaned against Enjolras’ shoulder as they finished eating and shook his head afterwards when the others invited him to Feuilly’s. “In a bit,” he said. “I just want to do something. I won’t be long.” He made sure to catch everyone’s eyes, impressing on them that he wanted to go alone. There were no protestations, and he was sure they would understand if Enjolras told them which direction he was headed for when he left them.

Carentan’s graveyard was located at the bottom of the village to the south, tucked in a sort of clearing surrounded by trees. Grantaire had no clear memory of it from when he’d lived here, but he still found the graves easily. At first, he saw only his father’s – Clément Martineau – and then, next to it, his mother’s. Helene Martineau. He’d come for his father, but he found himself kneeling in front of her grave instead, touching the wood of the marker and trying to remember anything about her. She’d died of a fever when he was two, but that was all he knew.

The wood was rough and weathered, the letters of her name fading into it. Many of the graves were well-tended, their markers varnished and the names newly carved even if the bodies below them were generations old, but there were no Martineaus left in Carentan to care.

He didn’t even know what her maiden name had been. Grantaire rocked back on his heels, stunned by the realisation that he didn’t even know if she’d come from Carentan. He only knew her name because his father had occasionally mentioned her to Thénardier. To Grantaire, she had always been referred to as ‘your mother’, or more often, ‘your useless mother’. They had been united in that, at least, both thought worthless by the same man.

Had his father hit her, the way he’d hit Grantaire? Had she been afraid of the cellar? Had she loved her only son?

Grantaire swallowed, pulling his hand back from the marker. He hadn’t come for this. He forced himself to look away and found other Martineaus – his paternal grandparents, and a handful of others. His grandmother had died young, like his own mother, but she’d had four children. Only Clement had survived to adulthood. And Grantaire saw to his surprise that his grandfather had had a younger sister, and that she had died only five years before him. His father had never mentioned an aunt, but then, he’d never talked about his parents either. If not for the facts of biology, Grantaire wouldn’t have known he’d had grandparents at all.

But they weren’t what he’d come for.

He stood up, and looked around to make sure he was alone before looking back down at his father’s grave, and spitting on it.

It wasn’t enough. He trembled, thinking for a second that he was going to cry before the build-up of energy was released in violence, his foot lashing out and kicking the marker. It was angled back by the blow and Grantaire kicked it again, and again until it was flat on the ground, and then he bent down and picked it up. Holding an end in each hand, he planted his foot in the middle and cried out with the effort of snapping it in half. Furious, he hurled the pieces at the end of the graveyard and fell to his knees, fists slamming into the earth as though his father would feel it through the soil.

“Bastard!” he rasped, his throat tight. “You _bastard_. I hate you! _I hate you_.” He wanted to tear the ground open and bring his father’s bones out, drag him to what remained of the cellar to be trapped there for all time. It was no less than he deserved. Seventeen years of his life lost to fear and pain, and what punishment had his father suffered for treating him so?

Burial by strangers.

He breathed heavily, crouched over the grass, and felt his anger begin to ebb away. When he died, he would be buried by friends. He had friends. The closest thing to a friend his father had ever had was Thénardier, who had been kept at arm’s length because if he’d ever found out about the silver, he would have cut Grantaire’s father’s throat and taken it for his own.

But Grantaire had Bossuet and Musichetta and Marius, who he trusted so much that he hadn’t hesitated to show them the treasure hidden in the woods. He had Enjolras, who wanted him to stay.

He pushed himself to his feet and looked down at the now empty space. Let that be enough, he decided. Let his father be forgotten by everyone. Any children born this winter would never even know that the Martineau house had existed. Let the name fall out of use. Grantaire certainly wasn’t going to continue it with children of his own. It could die with him. And in this graveyard, it would die with Helene, because he had no intention of being buried here.

He would die somewhere better, and he would be buried by friends. It sounded like such a small goal, but there was a lot to it. More than his father had ever had.

Tired once more, Grantaire gave his mother’s marker one last look, then turned and walked away. His friends were waiting for him at Feuilly’s, and they would smile when they saw him come in.

 

“By spring,” Grantaire promised Enjolras, hugging him tightly in the kitchen. “Midsummer at the latest, I swear.”

“What if you don’t come?” Enjolras mumbled into his neck.

“We will. We’ve been doing this for years, Enjolras. We know what we’re doing. Besides, I’m hardly the only one with a reason for coming back, am I?” he grinned and kissed Enjolras’ ear. “Cosette and Joly are here too.”

Enjolras huffed, but finally let go of him, that familiar pinch between his brows. “I wish I could write to you,” he said, for the hundredth time.

“You still can. I just won’t be able to read them till I get back.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“I try.”

“I love you.”

Grantaire’s smile vanished, his mouth falling open. Enjolras didn’t take it back, and after a second Grantaire regained control of his mouth. “You…”

“Love you,” Enjolras finished for him, his cheeks going a bit pink. “Yes.”

It was like bubbles were filling him up, making him feel light and giddy. Grantaire started to smile again, still not quite sure he’d heard right. “Really?”

“If you ask why, I won’t write a single letter,” Enjolras muttered, and Grantaire had to kiss him. If Enjolras kissed back, he decided, this was real.

Enjolras’ lips against his were a solid vote in favour of reality, with all its shining new possibilities.

“I love you too,” Grantaire barely remembered to say, grinning almost too much to speak. “Are you sure you…”

“Yes, I meant it.” Enjolras kissed him again, then again but softer. “I mean it,” he sighed. “So you really have to come back.”

“I will. You know I will.”

They held each other a little while more, but finally Enjolras let him go, and Grantaire promised one last time to come back in the spring. He didn’t look back as he walked down the steps from the apartment, a strange heaviness growing in his chest. He didn’t look back the whole way to the forest, heading for the Mosailles where he’d agreed to meet the others. Bossuet and Musichetta were already there, their faces uncharacteristically sombre, and Marius arrived soon after.

Packs over their shoulders, they headed downriver to the bridge that would lead them further east to Marçan. From there, Grantaire knew, they would make their way to the markets in Renoir, and then they would come back.

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” Musichetta said as they reached the bridge, the first thing any of them had said. “I’ve always found that for you, anyway.” She smirked at Bossuet, who smiled back.

“That hurts me, Chetta. Aren’t I your shining sun? Your dearest love?”

“That sort of devotion needs to take a break every now and then,” she replied dryly, and Grantaire felt the weight in his heart lift a little. It would be good to play for a new crowd, and perhaps at the market in Renoir he would buy something for Enjolras, a trinket or something to go in his parlour. A souvenir to bring back when he returned in the spring.

**Author's Note:**

> See beginning notes for band-related music suggestions, if you missed it when you started!
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider [buying me a coffee!](https://ko-fi.com/A221HQ9) <3


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